I Could Kill You With This Spoon
by tennantstype40
Summary: Your name is Karkat Vantas. You are an Alternian. You are the equivalent of twenty-three Earthly revolutions around their weak sun. And you are an assassin for the artificial planet colony of Skaia. Your job, as handed down to you by the Great and Honorable Derse King XVII, is to befriend a famed human rights activist under the pseudonym of the Knight of Time.
1. KV 527

**NOTE: This fic is also on Archive of Our Own, and it'll probably update there before it updates here. I'm also on Tumblr under the same username as here.**

* * *

 **The Fifth Day of Dark: 11:00 PM: LOG 0001**

It was cold when you arrived at the sealed chamber entrance to Skaia. The fact that you had to be frisked for weapons, explosives, and other potentially deadly paraphernalia when you arrived didn't exactly help.

You hate the dark seasons.

You've heard that, on Old Earth, they used to call this "winter", and there would be this white "snow" substance, which coated everything and made the landscape beautiful. You've seen paintings. Trees and forests covered in this "snow" and sparkling white. Little hoofbeasts pulling flimsy wooden transportation devices, each filled by a couple. It's what sparked your interest in Human art, and it's what prompted you to begin working as an assassin. After all, only the richest and most outrageously corrupt live on Old Earth, with its carefully recultivated lands and protected wildlife.

But that's beside the point.

Right now, you're standing in front of a run-down shack made of rusted, corrugated metal and poorly welded beams. Rain leaks through the shoddy overhang above the front door, and you had to smash the doorbell a total of five times before it rang.

Now, with the door open, you get your first glimpse of your target.

A human male. From his files, you know that he's the same age as you. Blond hair, styled into a messy version of what you believe the Humans call a "quiff", pale, with relatively broad shoulders. An injury from a previous and clearly less competent assassin's attempt left him with some unknown degree of medical complications. Logically, you can assume this is why he's (a) using a bulky wheelchair, the sort with the larger wheels on either side, and (b) being presided over by some dorky-looking Human with black hair and thick, rectangular-frame black glasses.

Understandably, neither of these men are screaming "I trust you wholeheartedly" to you, but it's your job to change that. With a solid ten kills under your belt, you're certain that this will be a simple task.

After all, the one with the glasses already seems more accommodating.

In fact, the one with the glasses is the first to speak. He even offers to shake your hand, though, you politely refuse. "Name's John," he says, his voice slightly higher than you're accustomed to hearing from a male Human. "I'm Dave's resident best bud and physician. In that order. I'm guessing you're the new bodyguard. I'm right, right? You're not some creepy hitman here to kill my best friend. That would be weird, huh?" Though the statement makes you nervous, he punctuates it with a literal snort of laughter. Then, he waves the comment aside and nudges Dave by the shoulder. "Move out of the way, dude. You're being rude."

"Well excuse me for not wanting to get shot again," responds the blond, his vocal pitch artificially heightened with faux offense. You watch closely, noting every motion. His left hand, which you can only assume is his dominant one, nudges at a joystick controller, which is crudely secured to the right armrest with a mass of duct tape and what seems to be a singular stray piece of chewed gum. At the same time, his right hand buries itself in the front pocket of his oversized red sweatshirt. As he backs away, he eyes you over. He puffs his chest up, like a frightened bird, before speaking. "I can kill you," he mutters. As if looking for the most innocuous thing in the room, he darts over to the still-set dining room table. After picking up a spoon, he continues, "I can kill you with this spoon."

(You highly doubt he could kill so much as a bug on his own, but you're a decent enough individual to keep this to yourself. Knowing your luck, the bastard'll turn out to be a combat master and he'd beat the shit out of you.)

John, in return, laughs. Another series of dweeby snorts. "Have some manners, Dave," he playfully scolds. Then, he turns to you. "I apologize for my friend's behavior. He's not too keen on strangers. Or, surprisingly, people. He hates most people. At least, he hates actually being around them. He'll write and philosophize all about it, but he'll run like a fucking leopard if you invite him to a party." A shrug. John gestures towards the table, from which Dave had taken the spoon, and tacks on a final addendum. "We've set a place for you. I've got some eggs and bacon ready. Dave, go get those, would you?"

"Sure thing, loser." Somehow, Dave squeezes his makeshift chair through the narrow gap in the makeshift wall. He returns a few seconds later with a tiny, depressing egg and some shriveled bacon scraps. With all the charisma of a dead cockroach, he drops the still-simmering pan onto the table. "Eat up, bodyguard. The High Jackass has been upping his campaign against me."

(If you were a Skaian native, or had any sort of loyalty to the King beyond his hefty paycheck, you'd punch this smug asshole in his stupid face. But, you aren't. And you don't. So, you let it sit. Instead, you prod at the meager offerings in front of you.)

Obviously, life is hard in Skaia. At least, for these two nitwits it is. You almost feel bad eating their food, but you're aware of the fact that you'll be living off of them for a good, long while. And, to be honest, you're not sure how you feel about that. You've always hated buddy missions. Getting to know people tends to poke a hole in your steel armor, and you'll be the first to admit that you're a bit of a soft one. It's just the Vantas way. What else can you expect when your older brother was executed for standing up for genetic mutants, like yourself? Compassion is in your blood, and your only reason for overriding it is that tiny chance that you'll one day manage to see Old Earth.

It's like one of those cliché old romance books. Though, you've always loved those.

Not that you'd admit it to anyone.

* * *

 **The Fifth Day of Dark: 5:00 PM: LOG 0002**

After a brief nap in a bed that was little more than a soggy straw-stuffed potato sack, you figure you might as well get to learning about your target. The faster you get this personal half of the mission done, the easier it will be to kill the bastard. Sure, you might agree with his cause, but money talks. And the amount of money the King is paying you does more than that; it screams.

You wander downstairs, out of your shitty room, and into an equally pitiful living room. It seems that no one is there, so you meander through the house. As far as you can tell, everyone is either gone or asleep. Not that you care. If you can get information about your target, that's what you're going to do. It doesn't matter much to you if it's by snooping around. And, when you find Dave's room completely empty, you begin doing just that. You enter quickly, and close the rotten wood door behind you.

The first thing you notice is that the place is less of a bedroom and more of an archaic makeshift hospital room. The mattress is far more expensive than you'd have ever thought someone living in a Skaian district literally called Beggar's Court would be able to afford. It's one of those fancy foam ones. According to the commercials, it conforms to Human bodies like some sort of creepy, claustrophobic recuperacoon. A soggy box of likely contaminated (at this point) oxygen masks and tubing is in the corner, and the dirty faux wooden surface of the dresser is covered in bandages, pill bottles, and what you're fairly certain is a poorly hidden stash of illegal anti-monarchy publications. (You're not here to report his crimes, though. You're here to kill him.) Otherwise, personal touches in the room are sparse. The sling lift hanging from the ceiling has a bright red length of fabric suspended in its grasp, and the walls are covered in photos. A lopsided easel with a canvas painted solid grey is at the foot of the bed.

All things considered, it's a space that thoroughly creeps you out. If trolls had hair on the back of their necks, it would be standing up by now.

Still, you've got a job to do. Being creeped out is _not_ a valid reason for failing. So, you proceed to investigate the bed. (The red bedclothes make you wonder whether this Human has some sort of odd sexual attraction to the garish, ugly color. It also makes you file away a mental note to never let him see your mutant blood.) Beneath the sheets, you find little to get excited about. There are pillows, what seem to be molded pieces of plastic with straps, and an inexplicable collection of coupon clippings for ice cream. Specifically, it's for a flavor known as "Ultra Chocolate Blast," which sounds like another sickeningly sweet Human concoction to you. Nonetheless, it's something. You pocket a coupon to save in your file on him.

From there, you wander over to a dusty desk. It seems as if it hasn't been used in ages, and the computer on top is a solid ten years old. Probably used. Since it seems to be either dead or broken, you decide to investigate the contents of the drawer. Here, you find possibly the most useful thing yet. It's a crumpled up, water-damaged piece of lined paper—the sort that they use in notebooks or at school—with a schedule written out on it. As far as you can tell, Dave's day starts at 8:00 AM every day, and ends at 10:00 PM. You try to get deeper into the details, only to hear the sound of the doorknob turning.

You panic, shove the note into your pocket, and slam the drawer closed.

And, as soon as you're finished, Dave enters. The black-haired dork from earlier seems to have left him alone for the time being, seeing as he's alone and not too pleased to find you in his room.

Not that you're afraid of him. A pissed-off bastard can only be so threatening when he's inching towards you at a snail's pace in a sputtering, cobbled-together electric wheelchair.

"I don't trust you," he comments, his voice flat.

"Okay." You shrug. While you can usually judge people quickly, you're finding Dave harder to crack. So, you stick to your gut reaction.

He, meanwhile, passes you. He immediately approaches the desk, which he begins to visually scour. After apparently judging it to be undisturbed—or, maybe, lacking enough fucks to care—he turns himself to face you. It's an odd maneuver, and he seems to hold himself in place with his right arm, which is thrown over the backrest of his chair. "I'm guessing you've seen the whole shitty place, right?"

"Does it matter if I did?"

"Yeah. It does." With some more awkward maneuvering, he turns back around.

"Well, you're not kicking me out."

"I'm tired and don't really give a fuck."

"Understandable."

His eyes narrow. His lips press together, forming a straight line. Something's definitely going down in his mind, and it finally comes to a halt when he speaks up. "If you kill me, there'll be a hell of a lot of people pissed off with you."

"Why bother saying that now?"

"If you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly capable of doing everything by myself. I mean, if you didn't, I'm flattered. Most people bug me about shit the minute they meet me." His sudden chattiness is offputting, and you consider that it might be something that happens when he's under stress. "It's a shit deal, y'know? It's not exactly what anyone would say their dream life is, but it's how the stale cookie squishes. It's got perks, though. And I'm not about to waste the rest of my time crying over it. It's great for time management, though. And I—"

"God fucking dammit. What's your point?" you snap.

He freezes. The tension in his shoulder dissipates, and he seems to deflate. "Oh. Yeah." He sounds embarrassed. "My point is..." He frowns. If this is supposed to be the well-put-together and completely coherent leader of some sort of anti-monarchy movement, he's doing a shit job. In fact, you're amazed that the propaganda can make him seem like anything more than an absent-minded jackass. "I don't actually remember. Shit. That went badly."

"It did."

"You're right, meat shield," Dave nods.

You, in return, take this as a signal to leave. You gather your wits about you, edge around him, and try to keep your distance. Hands in your pockets. Stomach sucked in. Back pressed against the wall. As far as you can tell, Dave is about to drop dead with a strong gust of wind. Even if he's not, you're not up for a pissed-off tirade if you end up bumping into him. "Good night," you mutter.

"I'll sleep with one eye open," he responds.

* * *

 **The Fifth Day of Dark: 10:30 PM: LOG 0003**

As you lounge around in the living room, John enters the room. He flops onto the sofa, wipes some sweat from his brow, and offers you a small smile. "He can be a real handful sometimes. Sorry for his manners. He was in a bad mood today. Literally fell out of the wrong side of the bed and broke his favorite shades." A pause. Rubbing his chin, which is covered in tiny bits of black stubble, John continues, "Actually, they're his only shades."

(What a vain jackass.)

"What does he needs shades for?" you ask.

John shrugs. "He's a genetic fuck-up. Dork of reality and nerd of genetics." Apparently, this joke is amusing enough for John to let forth a quiet snort of laughter. "His eyes don't do well with bright light, so he keeps them on to prevent headaches. And, trust me, you don't want to be around Dave when he's got a headache. You'd already know. He had one all day today."

"I figured," you lie. With the most casual tone possible, you steer the conversation in a new direction. "So, medically..."

John groans. He rubs the back of his neck and chews on his lip. "Yeah, that'd be a big thing for the bodyguard to know, right?" (This guy is so fucking gullible. You could probably get him to admit Dave's darkest secrets with a quick question.) "It's all pretty complicated, but he's got most of his daily activities down. Don't worry about that, dude, I've got it. He's got some breathing problems, though, so that's important. It won't kill him, though. I mean..." John shrugs. He gets up, wanders off, and returns a few seconds later with a bottle of cheap beer. After taking a sip, he picks up from where he left off. (It's as if John is the put-together one and Dave is a scatterbrain with a few good ideas.) "It'd be pretty shitty of you to not help him out if he starts having problems, but it'd take some pretty bad air or him missing his medications to kill him that way. Not that you would. You seem like a pretty cool guy."

You nod slowly, though a tiny pang of regret hits you. "Thanks."

"No problem." Another toothy, stupid grin. "Look, I'm tired. I'm going to bed, so..." Here, he chugs the rest of his drink. Considering the fact that he looks pretty damned innocent, you're surprised. "I'll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, because we'll be going out early in the morning."


	2. KV 130

**The Sixth Day of Dark: 9:00 AM: LOG 0004**

It is far too early for you to be awake, but you must be. Damn this job. Damn it to the Human concept of hell and back.

On the bright side, after purchasing new shades for Dave before the sun actually rose, thus apparently avoiding a headache, it seems that your target is far more open and willing to speak than he was when you first met. And that's fucking awesome, seeing as it means you'll get more information. So far, though, it's been little more than asinine chatter.

"So... What're we out of?" Dave inquires, relaxing in his chair as John pushes him. "I know we need more juice. We always need more juice."

"I'll pee in a jug and spray some cheap apple scent on it."

(Disgusting.)

Dave laughs. It doesn't take much to see the chemistry between the two. "Look, jackass, I know the difference between fine apple juice and literal piss." He stops, cranes his neck to look at you, and frowns. "You don't know much about around here, so I might as well fill you in. We've got all your standard amenities, but they're probably not up to your snuff. I'm guessing you're from the nicer side of Alternia."

"Mhm." You lie. You fled Alternia before you were even six sweeps old.

"Well, it's probably a big..." He stops to squeeze out a few weak coughs. Then, as if nothing happened, he continues, "A big culture shock. Get used to it." From your vantage point, you can't see his eyes. You can't even tell what his passive expression means. For all you know, he knows what you're here for. It's unnerving as hell, and you don't like it. Even his words are delivered in the most infuriatingly unaffected tone. (Only to you, though. Never to John. With John, he's less of a robot.) "First stop's the grocery store. Keep your eyes peeled like naked grapes, meat shield, because it's fucking wild in there." He tends to drop the "G" at the end of words. You note that much, but you've got little else to show for the hour you've been with him.

In regards to Dave's words, you're skeptical. Nonetheless, you definitely won't be paid if he ends up being shot by some random mugger. So, you heighten your guard.

* * *

 **The Sixth Day of Dark: 1:00 PM: LOG 0005**

Not surprisingly, the whole deal about the market being a vicious back alley free-for-all was a lie. It was a massive, filthy lie, but you had to take it at face value. After all, if you pull this off, you'll be the assassin everyone wants to hire. You'll be the _de facto_ killer of the cosmos, which might not be the job of threshecutioner you'd always dreamed of, but it's pretty damned close.

That aside, you still haven't managed to squeeze any useful information out of Dave. It's getting ridiculous, and you're on the verge of giving up when he practically sticks an apple in his mouth and sprawls out like a stuffed pig on a platter.

"So, hey," he begins, having appeared in your doorway only moments ago. (You say "doorway" because your room has no door. You suppose it's an occupational hazard; a bodyguard with a door between them and their intended charge would be pretty useless.) He clears his throat and offers an anxious half-smile, an expression that somehow manages to make you consider the fact that he's pretty attractive. For a Human, that is. "I was a huge ass yesterday. Chock it up to a killer headache and the fact that I felt like I was having the worst hangover ever. Do... Do trolls know what a hangover is?" He pauses, seemingly filled with genuine concern.

Clearly, this asshole has some strange priorities.

"Duh," you respond. "I've been drunk plenty of times, sir." (Rule number two. Formality, professionalism, and etiquette. You've never been good at the last one, but you do your best to fulfill these rules as often as possible.)

At this realization, Dave breathes a sigh of relief. Then, without mentioning hangovers again, he continues, "Well, I feel bad about it, and I wanted to know if you maybe wanted to come have lunch with me. John's out picking up some things, but he fixed some toast and jelly." Dave frowns. His head tilts so that he's not longer facing you, and he rubs the back of his neck. His voice drops, turning to a muddled mutter. "It's not much, but... Sorry. I'm not that great at making money. Kind of awful at it. Can't hold a job to save my ass." Another sigh, this one more pensive than before. "We have butter," he adds, seemingly considering this a major development.

Somehow, the sheer fact that he thinks butter is some sort of luxury worth mentioning astounds you. In fact, it bothers you. You want to pull out the king's hefty down payment on your hit and give it to him, if only for the hopefully short amount of time he'll be around to enjoy it. Of course, with your profession, such attachment is bad. Horrible. Awful idea. So, you do your best to smother it to death with a moldy pillow. "Thanks. That sounds like a good idea, sir."

"Quit calling me 'sir' while you're at it."

"Understood."

As you step forward, Dave inches back. You follow him to the living room, and sit down at the rusty metal slab that serves as a dining table. As you sit down, Dave speaks up. "Anyhow, I never got your name. It's real shitty of me to be calling you a meat shield all the time, so..." Again, he turns until he's no longer facing you. Something, somewhere in his past, has made him as skittish about a personal connections as you. But, what was it?

"Karkat Vantas," you reply. "Pleasure to serve."

"You sound like Sollux when he showed up," Dave laughs.

You freeze.

You know that name.

Before you fled your home planet to escape culling, you were friends with someone named Sollux. On the other hand, it's not an odd name... "Captor?" You ask.

"Yeah," Dave continues, smiling all the while, like the oblivious fuck he is. "You knew him?"

(Shit.) A long, deep breath. In.

Out.

In.

Out.

"Nope," you lie, "Never met a guy like that in my life. Heard about him, though." You know you pulled these false statements off, but you can't help wondering what became of your former friend. Sure, getting close to people is an occupational hazard, but that can't apply to dead people, right? "What was he like?"

"Pretty cool guy, actually." Dave shrugs. He sets his right hand on the table, and you watch absentmindedly as the fingers seem to tremble constantly. Slight, tiny, sharp movements. "He programmed my chair for me and maintained our old security system. Made it out of old computers and stuff. I'm trying to figure out how he did it, but it's not as easy with one full functioning hand. Two would be ideal, I guess."

"Hm." By now, you've managed to beat your feelings to death. Your mind is once again focused on your primary task. "That explains the hand, then."

A casual nod. Dave takes a few bites of his toast, though he seems thoroughly uninterested in actually eating. "Side effects of being shot in the neck, dude. Kind of mean of the bullet manufacturers to not include a fucking warning label, though."

You have to snicker at his comment. He's got a dry sense of humor; you can already see that. (You've always admired that in people. Personally, you can't even tell your own jokes with a straight face. Even after all these years of straight up murdering people for money, you're a fit of giggles in the middle of a shitty knock-knock joke.) "Yeah. You and John... Are you two...?"

"No, we're not."

"Ah." A pause. You note how quickly he answered. That's not something to bring up anytime soon. "So, you lead the Prospitians?"

"John does. I used to, but it's too much for me to handle, now. I write the pamphlets, but John does the public engagements. It's actually nicer that way, though. I've always hated doing that sort of shit." At this point, Dave pauses. He curses under his breath, and it dawns upon you that the juice he'd been drinking is now all over the table. Some has also dripped onto your lap, which means your pants will be sticky as fuck until you can find a proper place to wash them. "Fuck. Sorry."

"What happened?" You know you sound clueless, but you _were_ studying his facial reactions to your statements and analyzing his every word like some frazzled, burnt-out old psychologist.

"Reached with the wrong hand. I just forget shit sometimes and... Jesus. Fuck. Really, dude, I'm sorry. I know better than anyone what a pain it is to get apple juice out of clothes. Especially around here." By now, Dave's face has turned a vibrant pink. The fingers of his right hand twitch, seeming to unconsciously pick at the fabric of his admittedly ugly, tattered black sweatpants. His left hand busies itself with navigation. In a way, it's almost nice. As someone who usually does his best to stay unnoticed, it's a refreshing change to have someone so concerned about inconveniencing you. On the other hand, it tells you that Dave is as soft and stupidly sentimental as you are. And that's a problem.

"It's fine," you reassure him. "I've got some more clothes upstairs."

"No, really." Returning with paper towels, Dave proceeds to wipe up the resultant mess. After handing you a dirty dishrag, he averts his gaze. "This went... Badly. Sorry."

"You're fine." At this point, you're actually trying to reassure him. It's not some sort of disconnected jig around a target practice dummy anymore, and you're genuinely starting to feel sorry for this twit. Sure, he's a clumsy douchebag, but he's beating himself up over nothing. And, on a certain level, you can relate with that all too well. "It's a mistake. Happens to everyone. I'm not even the same species as you, and I've done some shit like this before, too." (Again, you're not too great at maintaining a perfectly professional and respectful tone. The point is that you try.) You dry yourself off, then proceed to help him wipe off the rest of the table. When it's cleared of all traces of juiced tree produce, you offer him a smile more sincere than any you've ever offered before (especially to a future victim of your occupation).

And, in return, he offers you a similar expression. It's slightly lopsided, but oddly charming. "Thanks. Sorry. I just get... Certain people I know don't take mistakes so well. He..." A sudden pause. Then, as if the past few minutes never happened, he adds, "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

You, following instructions, do not. You don't have time to, anyhow.

Right now, all you're worried about is how the _fuck_ you're going to kill this bastard.

You can't kill him. Hell, you can barely bring yourself to think about pulling the easy out card and poisoning his damned juice. There's just something about him... He's not some crime lord or murderer or shady corporate boss. He's just a guy with a life doing what he thinks is right. And it _is_ right. But...

Money.

You want that money.

Shit.

This is going to be harder than you thought.

This is going to be _much_ harder than you thought.


	3. KV 48

**The Tenth Day of Dark: 5:00 AM: LOG 0006**

After a few more days of Dave Strider, you can most definitely say that this will be the hardest job you've ever accepted. For the sake of your life and wallet, however, you hope it will be the hardest job you've ever _completed_. But, again, you can't be too certain of that. What with his stupid Human antics and his surprising amount of charisma, which you had initially believed to be a thing he didn't possess.

Now, at this ungodly hour of the morning, you find yourself staring at the Skaian moon. An ugly, fake little grey thing. You consider that you are one of billions of dots inside of a rotating, reinforced, glass-capped donut in in space, and you feel tiny. So tiny. You're like those little pests on humanoid planets, such as this one, that steals food. In fact, you can see a line of them forming to claim your amassed three days of uneaten breakfast. (Soon, it will be four days.) You want nothing more than to rip your contract to shreds, shove it into your mouth, fully digest it, and release it as steaming shit in the king's front yard. After this hypothetical act of defiance, you would then rocket yourself into space with the sheer power of your apathy, and remove yourself from all future affairs of Dave "Problematic Target" Strider.

Alas, this is mere fantasy.

Instead, you're contractually obligated to the king, and you're legally bound to serve Dave until you finish collecting information and intelligence on him and The Prospitians. As the Humans say, life's a bitch.

 **The Tenth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0007**

"You need to eat up, Karkat," John chirps, his voice as puke-worthily chipper and bright as always. "Gotta work up that muscle for punching would-be-killers in the face."

"Hm," is all you can muster.

Dave, meanwhile, has something more to say. Not that this is a surprise. Dave _always_ seems to have something to say. "I know you've been hoarding your breakfasts in your room, by the way. John might have manners, but I don't. I checked your place over." He smirks. "By the way, just throw it out if you don't eat it. They attract ants."

(Ants. That's the word you were looking for this morning.) "Got it." You eye your breakfast for today, and find that it's more appealing than usual. It's a flat but fluffy-looking pancake with some vinegar on the side. You can tell that they've dealt with trolls before, because they have the whole "troll palettes prefer bitter and sour" thing down to an art form. Uninhibited by your previous lack of appetite, you eagerly dig in. Human etiquette be damned; you shovel it in with your bare hands.

"I told you he just didn't like what you were making," Dave says, his voice dripping with cocky pride. "I've got you, Karkat."

"You only remembered my name yesterday," you mutter through a mouthful of food. "I might as well thank you, though."

A nod from Dave and a huff of mild dissatisfaction from John. You're too busy eating to really pay attention to either reaction.

 **The Tenth Day of Dark: 12:00 PM: LOG 0008**

She looks a whole lot like Dave, albeit with a slightly more rounded build and longer hair. Her clothes are more refined, and she seems to be of a slightly higher standing than Dave, though it's not by much. The bag over her shoulder is enough to tell you that. "Oh." She eyes you over with a particular brand of attentiveness you've never before been subjected to. You feel as if she's staring into your person, digging into your soul to find any flaws. (And there are a lot of those.) "You must be the new bodyguard." She speaks with a careful attention to her words, and it's obvious to you that she doesn't trust you as far as she can throw you. "I'm Rose, Dave's cousin. He called me over for our usual poker match."

"Great, so I'll just leave you to..."

"You're the designated card holder, sir," Rose interjects. It seems as if she's smiling, but you honestly can't tell. She's as enigmatic as her cousin.

 **The Tenth Day of Dark: 12:30 PM: LOG 0009**

This is _not_ what you were trained to do. You were never trained in holding some blond jackass' cards while simultaneously dealing hands to the rest of the table and keeping track of damned near everything. Hell, you barely know how to play this stupid Human game.

And, of course, Dave won't let you forget that you're clueless. "Four of a kind beats two of a kind," he mutters, eyeing his cards. "I'm well aware that we're technically playing for bragging rights, but I'd love to actually get my chips."

"Ugh." (Maybe you can kill this guy after all.) You pluck three red chips from Rose's stack and drop them unceremoniously atop Dave's.

Then, you deal the next round of cards.

This continues for a while, and you get little useful information out of the ordeal. You do, however, notice a few peculiarities about Dave. He seems to be able to grab lighter items with his right hand by flexing his wrist back, a habit you've never seen another Human cultivate with such unnatural skill. He's also observant. He's outrageously observant, which means you'll have an even shittier time when it comes to killing him.

Eventually, though, the affair comes to an end, and you're damned ready to sing praises to the world about your newfound freedom. While John retreats to his room, Dave sticks around to help clean up.

"I wasn't too tough on you, was I?" To your surprise, he seems to be truly concerned. His lips are curved into a tiny frown, and the lines on his forehead are indicative of furrowed brows.

"Nah," you lie. You tend to lie a lot. "It's cool."

"Fucking awesome," Dave nods. "I'd never want to be like... I mean... I hate coming off like a hardass, y'know? You probably don't know, since I've never told you until now." He shrugs. "Anyhow, thanks for sticking around. Rose lied, though. John usually deals and does that shit. Sollux used to actually play with us. And we conned him out of oodles of sweet, sweet cash." A nostalgic smile punctuates the statement, though it quickly fades. In its stead, there's another small frown. "In retrospect, that was real shitty of us. Um..."

(He sure can talk a lot.)

"Anyhow, thanks for playing. You're a real trooper. Shit. I sound like those shitty old television shows from Ancient History." A sheepish grin denotes the end of this sentence, and it also manages to make you feel... Strange. You feel as if you want to get to know more about Dave. Not about what you're supposed to be learning—no, that would be too simple. Instead, you have the sudden urge to know more about him as a person. What was his childhood like? When he was little more than a fleshy, vaguely offputting Human-grub, what was his life like?

(Shit!)

If your mind were comprised of tiny versions of you, then many of them would be wielding pitchforks and torches and beating down the emotion-controlling sector of your brain.

You're so engrossed in these thoughts, that you barely register the fact that he's long gone. In fact, when you finally manage to drag yourself back into the real world, you find yourself alone. The dining room table is empty, and the only trace of the strange gambling game is a stray red chip, which seems to have wedged itself in a space between the concrete floor and one of the rusty walls.


	4. KV 492

**The Eleventh Day of Dark: 3:00 AM: LOG 0010**

Having gone nearly two weeks without much useful information to report back with on your _first_ progress report, you've grown desperate. Once you were sure everyone was asleep, you crept from your room into Dave's. If there's one thing you can count on, it's that groggy people say a whole lot more than when they're actually awake. Besides that, you can get a better look at Dave's room. Honestly, the latter is preferable; trying to wake people when they're sleeping can end badly. For everyone.

Right now, you're hunched over the desk you'd tried to raid earlier. Having failed that time, you hope to succeed now. After all, Dave's asleep. The wheezing of the formidable tank of a machine by his bed is enough to keep anyone from hearing you. Hell, at this point, you could probably beat out a drum solo on his walls and he'd stay asleep. If he sleeps through that monstrosity, he'll sleep through anything, right?

Squinting at things in the light of a dim flashlight is clearly the most adrenaline-pumping activity you could ask for. This is exactly what you trained for. Looking at old, crumpled documents in the dark.

 **Wanted! Reward of $5,000,000 to be issued directly from the Great and Honorable Derse King!**  
 **To be returned dead.**

 **Name:** Dave Strider  
 **Age:** 20  
 **Hair Color:** Blond  
 **Species:** Human  
 **Crime:** Treasonous provocation of unlawful anti-government agencies

(Clearly, that bounty went swimmingly.)

You shove the crumpled page of weather-worn paper to the back of the desk drawer and unfold another page. This one looks newer, and it has a sloppily written message on it in bright red ink. The letters are tiny, cramped, and several spots on the page have been scratched through with enough vigor to rip through the paper.

To Whom it May Concern,

Due to recent developments, all Prospitian visits to the Tin Can are to be discontinued immediately, pending investigation of suspected dissidents certain individuals. Medical personnel, mail carriers, and publication distribution officials are permitted to enter after atwo dayforty-eight hour notification in advance. No one will be allowed on the premises without this notice.

Additional regulations are also taking effect as of today: The First Day of Dark in the Year of 67 of [obscured word] Glorious Rule.

1\. All requests to visit with the Knight of Time have been suspended indefinitely due to recent health problems. From the Knight of Time's own hand, the Prospit leadership issues a sincere apology. Visitation will resume soon.

2\. The Prospit leadership must respectfully request the immediate cessation of all fundraising efforts. Increased income is bringing undue attention to the movement, and most of the money seems to be going to unknown places.

3\. Funerary arrangements, as usual, will be made at the end of the month for all reported deaths within the movement. Please forward the names of the deceased to the Tin Can. Mail carrier officials will deliver them.

(Jackpot.) After making sure Dave hasn't woken from his slumber, you pocket the notice. This is recent. It's relevant. Hell, you're sure you'll be getting a nice bonus for delivering something this juicy. As you do this, another page—presumably one that was somehow attached to your intended target—flutters onto the desk. Picking it up, you find yourself faced with a list of tiny names. Most of them have been smeared or scratched out. Some, however, are still legible. There's also a title on the page. (You guess Dave would need one, seeing how little he actually organizes things.)

 **List of Personnel Killed during the Year of 67 GR**  
1\. [Obscured]  
2\. [Scratched out, then blotted out with what looks like an errant smear of old peanut butter.]  
3\. Sollux Captor, 27  
4\. Rufioh Nitram, 43  
5\. [Scratched out and illegible.]  
6\. [Blank, presumably waiting for someone to fill the space.]

(Shit.)

Though you don't _want_ to take something like this, you know it's your occupational duty. If anyone found out that you passed over something this important, you'd be fired and back in another seedy galactic rest stop bar faster than you can say "shit". You quickly fold the paper, doing your best to push the third name out of your mind, and add it to your still-meager stash of evidence against Dave.

You suppose the evidence is also against John.

Thinking about that makes you feel uncomfortable. John seems like a nice enough guy. He's annoying, but he's got a good heart. If you were a guessing sort of troll—and you are—you'd say he's only in the movement because Dave is his best friend. He doesn't seem that much into the intricacies of the ideology. Hell, from what you've seen, he's too busy making godawful jokes and performing kitschy magic tricks to read any of Dave's lengthy pamphlets.

A long, drawn-out sigh escapes you.

You figure at this point that you've lingered too long, so, gathering your things, you depart.


	5. KV 38

**The Fourteenth Day of Dark: 9:00 AM: LOG 11**

To your chagrin, you've been allowed to see the entrance to the underground base, from which all of the illegal pirate broadcasts are streamed to Skaian television networks, but you've yet to be allowed to enter. You've also never been allowed to see how one turns the otherwise unassuming metal wall into anything beyond just that. You suppose it's only logical. They can't trust you yet. You haven't proven yourself. If anything, you'll need to arrange an attack to fend off. Then, you're sure you'll have their trust.

But, until that can happen, you're stuck watching the broadcasts—which consist of little more than colorful bars on a screen and static-filled audio—from the shitty cathode ray tube television in the kitchen. It's one of those ancient things that you're genuinely surprised still works. You've seen things like these in history museums, often broken beyond repair. That's what tends to happen when millions of people are suddenly purged from one planet and exiled to live in space.

"Welcome back to your biweekly Prospitian Movement Report, hosted by the Knight of Time and Heir of Breath. The past two weeks have been pretty boring," John's the primary narrator. This is the first time you've watched the broadcast so close to where it's being recorded, but you've viewed the older ones sent by the king in your briefings. If he wasn't part of a massive rebellion, you're pretty sure John would do well as a television host. By Human standards, he's attractive enough; he's also got the required amount of animation and charisma. "Today is the Fourteenth Day of Dark. Nine on the dot. Fourteen days of cold season down, seventy-six to go. If you go by the triplet calendar, it's one-hundred twenty-six days."

"We're a revolutionary underground television broadcast, Heir of Breath, not some shitty weather station." True to form, Dave demonstrates far less tact and immensely more personality (albeit not exactly television-sweetheart-worthy) in his commentary. "Updates, publications, new locations. That's all we're doing."

"Someone's grumpy," John hums.

Dave groans. "Updates. I misplaced the original note, so I'm going to wing it. Feel free to shoot me if I miss something." He pauses, clears his throat, and begins, speaking in the most disinterested voice possible. Either he's not feeling like being very personable today (likely) or he just doesn't give a damn (also likely). "Due to some complex medical bullshit going down with me, I'm cancelling all visitation to the Tin Can as of now." (You've come to learn that the "Tin Can" is a rather apt name for the place you're living in.) "Mail people and essential personnel are still allowed in."

A buzzing noise follows this. You can pin the noise down as Dave's chair malfunctioning. (It's been doing so for the past two days, with John making several I'm-not-suggesting-but-I-am comments to you that it's time for something that's not a literal stack of garbage glued together and mounted on wheels. Not that you're going to spend your money on a new chair. For one thing, Skaia's not too accommodating. Finding a place that sells them will take a while, and buying one will put a huge dent in the advance pay you received. And, right now, you're planning on keeping that for yourself. At least... That's the plan.)

After an audible utterance of a string of profanities, Dave continues. "Also, you all need to quit sending funds to the wrong place. Don't send them at all. Pass them off. We'll get them here. I promise. Otherwise, you're attracting unwanted attention. We don't need another repeat of the thirtieth day of dusk. We've lost enough fucking supply locations as it is."

Here, John hastily jumps in. "And that's all of the announcements, thanks for listening."

The channel lets forth a loud, ear-piercing screech before returning to its usual broadcast of solid static.

* * *

 **The Fourteenth Day of Dark: 11:00 AM: LOG 0012**

As per usual, you were dismissed in the hours immediately following the broadcast. As scatterbrained as these two twits are, they aren't total strategic idiots. They know what they're doing, and they clearly don't trust you enough to let you in on it. Again, you can't blame them. The king issued you an official badge of indemnity to present in the event of a sudden raid on your location.

You've been brainstorming ways to win their trust without involving others or having to call in a favor. Setting up a planned and ultimately harmless attack to "defend" against is the most surefire way, but it's risky. Secrets don't go well, it seems. The next option is the slower one, and that carries the same hazards. Hell, it carries even more; you can't get attached to anything in your profession.

So far, you've yet to come up with a solid plan.

Well, you _have_ , it's just not the most moral of plans. You planted tiny wireless microphones throughout the space. You've learned that Dave and John prefer to use the living room as their designated spot for discussion, so you've bolstered that area's surveillance with your singular camera. Right now, you're utilizing these tools and spying on them through your computer.

You've never felt comfortable getting information this way, though. Despite your profession, you have a set of standards, and one of them is to avoid invading privacy whenever possible. You only do so in order to kill or if there's an emergency, and you deem this job enough of a problem to classify this as an emergency. It's shaky logic, but you take whatever you can get.

"Look, John, you have good ideas _sometimes_ , but now ain't one of those times," Dave grumbles, leaning so far back in his chair that you're certain he'll tip it. "Right now, the best idea is to lay low and keep building up steam. We're down to one supply base. We need more before we plan on anything."

"Point taken." John shrugs. He scoots his empty plate around on the table. "We'll need to consult with Rose first, though."

"Mhm." Dave nods. "Any money in the reserves?"

"Ours?" Another shrug from John. "Some. Not much."

"And the Prospitian Vault?"

"Enough." Now, John begins picking at the crumbs on his plate.

"Then I think we're good for now." With a bit of coaxing, Dave's chair turns and begins heading out of the room.

You immediately shut down the computer and shove it hastily beneath the mattress you're using as a bed.

* * *

 **The Fourteenth Day of Dark: 2:30 PM: LOG 0013**

Apparently, John has the fifteenth through twentieth days off of every season. It seems about accurate. From what little you know about Skaia, it has some odd labor law that requires so many days off for employees. A mandatory absence of, if John's is anything to go by, a paltry amount of time per year. (John, being his employer's good friend, seems like a reliable source for finding out the absolute minimum requirement for such a law.)

By now, John's packed up and you've all piled into a taxi. You've been on plenty of these. Hell, you've even been on one of the cheap manual-drive ones, but whoever arranged this trip has spared no expense. It's one of the larger ones, complete with a good amount of space to move around in and even a small bed above the seats. The forward portion of the self-driving vehicle is stocked with a fridge and a shelf of snacks.

Honestly, you're suspicious. How could either of these two doofuses afford this?

"It's nowhere near Wintertide this year. Break, I mean," John mutters, twiddling his thumbs.

"You picked the days," Dave shrugs. "So, what're you doing?"

"Beating the shit out of you for booking such an expensive taxi," John answers matter-of-factly, but the grin on his face gives him away.

"Fair enough."

You, having had enough of this banal conversation, speak up. "So, I'll be alone with Dave?"

"Don't worry. He can take care of himself," John reassures you. Unfortunately, he misses the mark completely. You're not concerned about what you'll need to do, you're concerned about...

Dave interrupts your thoughts. "It's good time to get to know the new meat shield, I guess." Another shrug, though this one seems to cause the fingers of his right hand to curl into a tight fist. He winces, but shows no other signs of discomfort. "Don't worry, Egbert, I can shoot a needle off the Imperial Tower's point if I need to. I _did_ train with this galaxy's finest sharpshooter. Remember?"

John scoffs and rolls his eyes, which you only not recognize to be a brilliant blue. "Jade's not that great."

"Whatever."

The taxi slows to a stop, and the door opens.

Customary human farewells are exchanged, including the odd "hugging" ritual. Then, after the allotted ten minutes, the doors slide closed. The Taxi lurches back to life, and it dawns upon you that you'll probably be spending the next five days doing elaborate mental jigs to avoid forming any sort of attachment with a man you're supposed to kill.


	6. KV 6

**The Fifteenth Day of Dark: 8:30 AM: LOG 0014**

The first artificial snowfall of the season is scheduled for today, and damn does it come. It's white, fluffy, and colder than the last bastard you offed, but it does nothing for the already bleached industrial landscapes of Skaia. You don't feel that same rush of excitement looking at grey concrete buildings and black asphalt streets coated in snow as you do from the paintings of rolling hills and massive trees capped by Earth's natural white precipitation. And you sure as hell weren't going to feel that way this early in the morning, anyhow. But, Dave is your legal employer, and you have to do everything you can to get onto his good side, and that includes listening to him as he chatters the auditory centers of your think pan into oblivion.

For the past thirty minutes, he's been anti-beguiling you with tales of his life. When he was five, he pickled a frog. When he was twelve, he figured out how to make a clock with a battery and those ugly brown starch beans (you believe they're actually called potatoes). You couldn't give less of a damn. At least, that's what you continuously reassure yourself. In truth, it's interesting to hear about his past antics. His injuries and occupation seemed to have done nothing to his eccentricity.

Not that you know that much about Human behavior. You rarely interact with them beyond the necessities. Your usual course of action is to find your target, eliminate your target, collect your dues, and depart for a new planet or celestial body.

"So... Um..." For the first time in a half an hour, Dave stops talking. without his stupid shades on, you can see his eyes. They're a brilliant, vivid red. The same color as your mutant blood or the sunset on a distant moonbase planet. (You can't recall which planet this was, but you remember staring at the sky for some time.) As usual, the fingers of his right hand scratch against the table. His left hand is busy rubbing the back of his neck. "I..." Another pause. His gaze moves away from you, focusing, instead, on a fly buzzing around the flickering light between the two of you. "It's... Ah." He chews on his lower lip. "It's kinda cold. Sorry about that. Let me... Um... I'll get a fire going. Just let me..." He backs away.

A low electronic hum fills the room as his chair lurches around like a drunk galactic cargo hauler at a bar. The motor sputters. The sounds echo in your mind, which you're doing your best to keep devoid of any sort of meaningful thought.

After a few moments, he returns with a metal pot—the sort Humans brew stews and soups in—and a box of old paper scraps. After dumping the scraps into the pot, he begins to fumble with a box of matches. With the box held loosely in his shaking right hand, he makes a few absolutely awful attempts at getting a flame going. "Sorry," he mutters, "My right hand's pretty useless," he clarifies. (As if you hadn't noticed.) "Fingers don't really work at all, so... Um..." The fifth strike gets the flame going, and he hastily drops the lit match into the accumulated pile of paper. (The speed he dropped it with tells you that he hates fire. Perhaps he fears it.) "I'm not that great at talking with people I... Um..." For the leader of a revolutionary movement and a guy who talks when he's anxious, he's shit at actually socializing. On the other hand, he does well with John around. Maybe he's just not keen on strangers; he barely spoke to you on the ride back from the station. "You been anywhere outside of Skaia? I mean... I know you have. You've got the Alternian accent. So..."

"Plenty of places," you answer honestly.

"What're they like? The other planets?" By now, Dave is busy warming his left hand over the flames. You notice, however, that he keeps his distance. He also seems to neglect warming his right. From what little you know, you're guessing he can't feel it.

"Some are fucking trash," you grumble. "Others are kind of nice."

"Mhm." Dave nods. "Before I got caught up in the revolution, I wanted to travel. Fuck around and maybe settle on a different planet or colony. That'd be a pain in the ass to do now, though."

"Probably," you admit.

He laughs, and it's a sound that, for some reason, makes you feel... odd. Calm? Happy? You're not sure what the feeling in your gut is, but it's soft and warm and you don't like it. You want to puke it up like bad food, but you can't. "You're supposed to tell me it's super easy to travel when all you can move is one arm. Nice change, though. I'll admit that you're original."

You nod slowly. "They have surgeries and suits for that sort of shit, you know."

"Oh, yeah," Dave agrees. "But it's fucking outrageously expensive. I'd spontaneously regenerate my spinal cord and grow a third head before I could afford that."

Again, you merely nod. Thinking about it, Dave's got nice hair. It's an odd color—a sort of orange golden-blond that you've never seen before.

"Rose says she thinks you're a creep," he comments, seemingly fishing at random for things to say. "She definitely doesn't trust you, but... I know I said I didn't on the first day, but I guess I have to. I was never this trusting before I got shot, but it's kind of hard to ask people to help you if you don't trust 'em, right?" He offers a small smile, and, for the first time, you notice that he has a singular dimple to the left. (You believe that's what the Humans call them.)

You mentally kick yourself.

You've killed attractive people before. Why is this bastard so different? He's just a Human, after all. "So, you trust me?"

"I have to." With what seems to be a relatively large amount of effort, he lifts his right arm, raising his hand off the table, and lets it drop at his side. "I can theoretically do everything by myself, but it's a waste of energy. I figured that out pretty fast." Again, he flashes a hint of that stupid smile. (And, in all honesty, you only call it "stupid" because it makes that unidentified feeling flutter in your gut again.) "Getting shot and almost dying in some seedy hospital kinda changes your perspective. For the most part."

You nod, unsure of what else to say. Until now, the most emotional conversation you've ever had with a target was when you tried to convince a drunk, corrupt executive to give you his drink. And that was only so you could poison it.

Shit. You deserve a raise on this hit.

"So, people have to do shit for you. Sounds like a fucking nightmare," you say offhandedly.

"Don't _have_ to. Most people I'd meet on the street probably wouldn't, seeing as Skaia hates anyone who can't so-called fix themselves. And it sucks sometimes, but it's probably more productive to live with it than spend all my time being the dog shit everyone walks in and trails into the funeral home." He frowns and rubs the back of his neck again. "I'm probably boring you to fucking death, right?"

"No, you're fine." As much as you hate to admit it, you're not lying at all. He's interesting. His voice is nice. It's neither that low, guttural growl that some Humans have, and it's not the mind-melting screech at the other end of the Human vocal spectrum. It's soft, mid-range, and somewhat breathy. "Do you have any Vtricol here?"

Dave backs away, parks in front of the fridge, and pulls your desired beverage out. As usual, it's a hideous lime green can, but it contains a cola specifically formulated for the troll pallet, so you can't complain that much. He tosses it to you with a surprising amount of force, prompting you to note that any attempt to physically kill him will need to come from the right.

"Thanks."

"No problem." He smirks. "I've got an article to work on for the Prospitian Pamphlet, so I'm going to go. It's been pretty cool getting to know you, though."

"Same," you grudgingly admit aloud.

* * *

 **The Fifteenth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0015**

 _You were always considered a traitor of your planet. It was more honorable to face your fate and be culled as a mutant than to run and escape persecution by fleeing the galaxy, as you have. But you've put enough distance and time between yourself and the planet to stay safe. At least, you did._

 _Now, you've been caught. You've been thrown to the stone floor of the execution block, and you see the glistening black blade as the threshecutioner brings it down to meet your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut and—_

"Hey." A surprisingly nice voice greets you.

You find yourself draped over the sofa. You can only assume you somehow ended up asleep. When you open your eyes, you find Dave parked beside you, his left hand outstretched to offer you... something.

"It's a King's Fruit. They're native to Skaia. Pretty expensive, but they're good for winding down after a bad dream."

You frown. After a few moments of hesitation, you take the offering and bite into it. Its lumpy brown skin and soft inner pulp has a rich, bitter taste. It's pleasant and admittedly relaxing, as the smirking blond had claimed. "Thanks?"

He waves aside your question of appreciation. "You were yelling about shit. Making a big fucking racket, so I came in and figured you were having a bad dream."

You remain silent. It's never a good idea to tell anyone of your weaknesses. Besides that, you're now considering the fact that you'll have to kill this Human at some point. Even after he helped you, you're going to have to make sure he's dead. For perhaps the first time since you began murdering for a living, you feel bad about what's to come.

"Anyhow, I'm going back to my room." With a hasty wave, Dave turns and departs.

And, in the pit of your stomach, you get that stupid warm, fluffy feeling again.


	7. KV 386

**The Sixteenth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0016**

"You said something about being a pretty fucking good shot," you mention offhandedly as you pick out the sweeter bits of cereal from your bowl. "Were you just shitting about that, or?"

"I can't shit," Dave answers with a completely straight face. Then, in no direct relation to his comment, he pulls a gun from where it's hidden beneath his right armrest. It's one of the laser ones, which means that reloading it only requires popping off the battery pack and putting on a new one. They're dangerous, quick, and cheap. The gun of choice for criminals and thieves. He clicks the safety off before setting it on the table. "Tell me what you want me to hit."

Not exactly anticipating this development, you shrug. At the sound of buzzing, you look up to find a particularly fat fly circling the light on the table. Perhaps it was the same one as yesterday. It probably feasted on your uncertainty and growing anxiety.

"Got it." In one swift motion, Dave picks up the gun and fires.

As if the world has turned into some stupid cartoon, the fly drops onto the table. (Admittedly, though, it was the size of a nickel. Skaian flies seem to run large. Not that it makes the feat any less impressive, since the fly was moving quickly.

"Impressive." (Don't try to outshoot him.)

"Hmph." Dave smirks. It reminds you of those images of Human western movies. The ones with the hoofbeast wranglers...

* * *

 **The Sixteenth Day of Dark: 1:00 PM: LOG 0017**

The banks are always some of the most elaborate places on any planet. Why wouldn't they be? They're run by extremely wealthy assholes with an eye for the most gaudy, extravagant interior and exterior décor. In this one, the walls are embellished with golden, flowery depictions of Skaian flowers. The floors are made of polished and obviously imported marble, seeing as no artificial colonies are home to such stone. Dark wooden panels divide each section, and it's so damned cold that you're ready to light yourself on fire. The least the rich could do would be to install adequate heating for this hellhole.

"My name's Dave Strider, and I'm here to deposit... um..." At this point, there's a pause. Both you and the clerk behind the finely polished glass counter stare at Dave as he fumbles around in his jacket pocket. After a few moments, he pulls out a severely wrinkled piece of paper. "I'm depositing my welfare check. Not that it's much." He snickers.

The clerk behind the counter, a greenish skeletal alien known as a cherub, offers a grunt of disapproval. "By order of the king, all welfare checks have been discontinued."

"Oh, yeah. I know. But this one is before the king did that." The innocent smile from Dave does nothing to warm the heart of the clerk.

Another huff. "Look, I don't make the rules. None of those are being accepted. Now, get out of here and let useful members of society cash their well-earned money."

"Someone's got a thorn up their ass," Dave mutters, gesturing for you to follow.

"That sucks," you say once the two of you are outside of the bank.

Dave shrugs. "I figured as much. The king's been getting pretty hostile towards the Prospitian Movement. He knows what's going down, and he knows how to pick it up. If that makes sense."

"Totally," you lie, nodding.

There's a short lull in the conversation and you and Dave begin to head back home. (Home. You've never called a place that you stayed "home" before.) "So, what? You're fucking screwed for money now, right?"

"Not really," Dave hums. "I do odd jobs and sell art."

(That explains the easel.) "That's neat."

"Mhm."

A silence falls between the two of you. Unlike usual, it's a calm silence. You're not trying to hide from anyone, nor are you trying to keep yourself from making any noise. Instead, it's a simple, conversational break. Considering your job, though, you don't get many of those. Having one is nice. You'd almost forgotten what it was like to talk to another sentient being—to talk to some _one_ instead of some _thing_.


	8. KV 41h

**The Seventeenth Day of Dark: 7:30 AM: LOG 0018**

You wake earlier than usual.

Perhaps it's because of the cold. The temperature has dropped considerably in the past few days, and soggy straw atop concrete encapsulated by metal walls isn't a very warm place to sleep. In fact, it's a downright awful place to sleep. You feel as if you slept in a bog, except the bog was filled with the tears of the frozen damned.

Or, maybe, it's the wind. It whistles through the cracks in the metal, sounding like ghostly whispers. Utterances of your past and future misdoings.

It might have even been the fact that your dreams strayed into the realms of nightmares. They've been doing that a lot lately. Your unconscious conscience strolls through familiar landscapes. Blood covering your hands. Soaking through the soles of your shoes. Matting your hair into thick, unmanageable clumps.

It may have been all three.

Whatever the reasons were, you're awake. And it seems you're not the only one, because Dave is parked at the table. His fingers are tangled in his hair, and his shades are clipped to the collar of his plain red undershirt.

"You couldn't go to sleep, either?" you ask.

"We've got a bad seed in the ranks," Dave mutters, never turning to look at you as you sit across from him. "Three mail couriers have disappeared, two bases have been raided, and were starting to get pretty low on funds."

You nod slowly. You suppress the urge to turn away as you present yourself as nothing more than a concerned confidant. "Sounds fucking bad."

"Not the sort of news I can sleep with," Dave mutters. Without his usual higher-collared shirts, you can see a small plastic piece at the base of his neck, which seems to have a bright red cap with an odd sort of pinwheel design. Perhaps noticing your interest, he eyes you with a wariness you haven't seen since the first day. He tugs at his undershirt until it's been displaced enough to cover it. " Why're you up so early?"

"No idea," you lie.

"Hmph." For the first time, you realize how heavily he breathes.

Or, really, that might not be the best word to describe it. His breaths are short and shallow when he's not speaking. They come at an interval only slightly faster than you're accustomed to with Humans. When he speaks, though, his words tend to come quickly. You'd thought it to be out of anxiety or awkwardness, but you're starting to wonder if it's an act of necessity.

"You talk a lot faster than most Humans I know," you point out.

He frowns. Finally, he looks up at you. Dark shadows stand out around his eyes, and it seems as if he's aged. "My lungs are weak," he explains, his voice flat and unaffected, "It's easier to say a lot in less time than to say the same amount of shit but take longer to do it. It's also awkward. If I pause too often, people speak over me. So, I trained myself to be fucking certain that everything I want to say gets said."

You nod. "That makes sense."

"Mhm." Dave frowns. He backs away from the table and let's forth a pained groan. The chair comes to an abrupt halt as his left leg bounces rapidly, slowly sliding him out of place until he's hunched over to the far left. After nearly a minute, the rapid up-and-down shaking slowly subsides.

You're sure this isn't a normal thing, but you're not about to question it. You've had enough Human body lessons for one day. Instead, you silently approach Dave and offer your hand, which he rejects in favor of pulling himself back into place by himself. "You seem to be having a whole constipated assload of problems today, aren't you?" you mutter, fully intending for the comment to go unheard.

However, it seems your intents are ignored. Dave snickers, smoothing out his pants over relatively thin legs as he responds, "Nothing gets past you, jackass."

"I didn't actually mean for you to hear that," you admit. (If trolls blushed like Humans, your face would be bright red.)

"It's fine," Dave says. As if to reinforce this, he tacks on a surprisingly powerful playful shove.

It takes nearly everything you've got to avoid stumbling.

"So... If you caught the rat, what'd be the punishment?" You ask the question purely out of curiosity.

"Interrogate, jail, and kill." Dave responds with a vigorous vengefulness. Almost as if this has happened before.

You make a mental note to be even more cautious from this point forward.

* * *

 **The Seventeenth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0019**

Having followed Dave around for a few hours through the rotten wood and rusted metal facades of what you can only assume to be the lowest socioeconomic part of Skaia, you're more than happy into the warmth of a slightly nicer-looking place on the edge of town, seemingly on the border between the lower class and the upper class.

"The Golden Greyhound is a pretty historic hangout," he explains as he holds the door open for you, parking his chair in front of it. "I figured you might want something more than toast to eat."

"That's pretty decent of you."

The words are said offhandedly, as you're too busy enjoying the warmth of the space. Outside is like the coldest reaches of some ice planet.

And Dave seems to take the remark with his usual brand of oddball grace. "I'll take that as a compliment," he says, straightening his shades. "The place runs kind of funny. You stand in line and order, and then you choose a table." Here, his right hand—its fingers forming a loose fist—rises slightly in the direction of a line of about ten people. "You can go sit down, if you want."

"That would make me a pretty shitty bodyguard," you shrug. "I'll stick in line with you."

Dave nods approvingly, as if you've passed some sort of test. "Well, then, let's see what you want to order." As he lowers his right hand, the fingers extend and contract with unnatural stiffness.

For some reason unbeknownst to you, but perhaps due to your dislike of the sound of nails scraping against textured plastic, you set your hand atop his, flattening it against the armrest of his chair.

And, in this moment, many things hit you, like a sack of frozen fish across the face.

Dave's hands are warm. Surprisingly warm. And they're just slightly larger than yours. You're certain that his left hand is different, being the dominant one, but this one is also surprisingly soft. Or, perhaps, not so surprisingly. He doesn't seem to use his right hand often. Finally, that strange feeling—the odd, fluttering, all-encompassing warmth, which rises from your gut and seems to spread throughout your body—returns.

All of this combines, and you quickly withdraw your hand. Nonetheless, the strange sensation remains. "Sorry. I didn't mean to... intrude on your personal space.

A small consolation is that Dave seems as flustered as you are. He pulls his right arm so that his hand rests loosely in his lap. He clears his threat, though the sound is more akin to a harsh breeze than a solid "ahem." He sighs. "It's fine."

"What sort of pallet-numbing Human trash do they serve here?" Your inquiry is the most forceful attempt at changing the conversation that you've made in a while.

And, not to your surprise, Dave takes the bait. You notice, though, that he's now preoccupied with straightening his shades. "Lots of things. They've also got some troll food."

"Mhm."

He looks away.

You look at him. You study his jawline, which is strong and pronounced. You note the cluster of stubble on his face, which is concentrated on the far right side. You glance at the lines on his lip, marks from where he's bitten into the skin again and again.

And, for the first time in your career, you realize that you'll be erasing the stories this Human could tell the universe with his murder. The immensity of the task suddenly weighs upon you. This bastard—this asshole with enough positive traits to make you question your morals—has experiences comparable to only his own. He has memories only he can share.

Who are you to decide whether or not he should be able to share all of it?

Who are you, beyond a desperate, greedy murderer?

"Karkat! KARKAT!"

You frown.

"What're you ordering?" Dave looks at you expectantly. Perhaps it's only your imagination, but he seems to be genuinely interested in your choice.

Unfortunately for him, in your panic, you simply order the first mildly tolderable item in the list. "Curried Jupiter Sandcrawler," you sputter.

Dave laughs. And the knot in your stomach tightens, pushing even closer to its snapping point.


	9. KV 594

**The Eighteenth Day of Dark: 8:00 AM: LOG 0020**

After everything you've been through and seen—all the people you've killed, some of them quite violently and with your own hands—you'd think you'd never be fazed again. After being soaked through your clothes with the blood of someone you just stabbed to death, you'd think you'd never be uncomfortable again. But, it seems that assumption was incorrect.

Because you're uncomfortable as _fuck_ right now.

Being unfamiliar with Human anatomy, you're unsure of anything about the specifics of Dave's injury. All you know is that—in accordance with the sparse medical files you received upon being hired—he can move little more than his head and his left arm. As he's demonstrated, he can use his right arm, but it seems to you that it takes a fair amount of effort.

That said, you arrived to breakfast to find that Dave had already eaten. He hasn't moved, though, and he seems to be making a haphazard attempt at the newspaper's daily crossword. The plastic bit at the base of his throat is exposed, and he doesn't seem to care much about covering it today.

For the first time, you notice that the skin of his right arm, particularly on the upper portion, is marked by unaltered burn scars. Tiny details you'd never noticed, but find disconcerting now that you have.

Who is Dave Strider?

What happened in his past?

"You're ogling at me like I've got twelve fucking heads," he says aloud, snapping you from your thoughts.

"Hm..." You frown. "Sorry."

"I'm not fishing for an apology," he shrugs. His right shoulder seems to rise little more than an inch or so. Perhaps even less. "I'm just pointing it out."

You nod.

He responds with a sigh. "John's coming back tomorrow," he says, probably trying to find something to talk about. "Hopefully he'll be back in one piece. He's not the best as keeping his whereabouts under wraps." He taps the fingers of his left hand against the table, creating a rhythmic 4/4 beat. "Not like they'd target John. They barely know he exists, right?"

You freeze, though it's only for a fraction of a second. "Yeah. That'd be weird," you say, even as you recall forwarding a detailed report on John to the Skaian king.

"I should call him, though," Dave muses, backing away from the table, "Just to check and see he's okay."

"Mhm. Sounds like a good plan." You offer an artificial smile, and he seems to take the bait. Nonetheless, it occurs to you that the plan was—as your mission briefings informed you—to dismantle the organization from the bottom and work to the top. Take out the lower levels, and, once they were gone, kill the leader. It's a logical strategy. If there are no more subordinates left, then the leader has no power. When the leader dies, no one is left to take their place.

* * *

 **The Eighteenth Day of Dark: 8:30 AM: LOG 0021**

So far, Dave has yet to reach John. It's only been thirty minutes, but you have to admit that even that much time is too much. For someone with such a high-risk position _and_ the knowledge that such a position is dangerous, John would have answered by now. If he could. Nonetheless, you continue to quell Dave's anxieties by feeding him bullshit about shoddy phone connections and unreliable networks. You feel absolutely awful doing it, but you have to. Unless you decide to come clean to being an informant, which is an awful idea, then it's what you have to do.

Meanwhile, you write to the king. If anything, John is a secondary target. Any guilt you have about having to kill Dave is only doubled with John, whom you're certain only got into this because he's Dave's friend.

To the Great & Honorable Derse King XVII:

I redact any former intelligence previously sent which indicts Johnathan Egbert as a figure of any importance in the Prospitian Movement. The individual is of little value to the organization, and his death will neither harm nor benefit its continued existence. Please accept my sincerest apologies for this grievous oversight.

My investigations have yet to reveal any people of major importance.

I thank you for your time and hope for a prompt response.

K. Vantas

Somewhere, in your gut, you have a feeling that your plea is too late.

* * *

 **The Eighteenth Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: LOG 0022**

Out of absolute desperation, you gave Dave one of your beers. You brought many; as much as you hate Human alcohol, you admittedly enjoy the buzz. It's certainly a pleasant but rare diversion from your usual day to day life.

Unfortunately for you, he ended up consuming a fucking solid amount of them. If your current tally is correct, you've lost three to his thirst. And, despite his appearance, he holds his own. He's yet to vomit, at least. Of course, everything has a negative. Perhaps unsurprising, given his personality, he's a chatty drunk. He's an _incredibly_ chatty drunk, and you've yet to convince him to shut the fuck up in the past however many hours. (Too many, as far as you're concerned. Far too many hours.) The only plus that you can possibly draw from this is that you're getting some information.

"John and I went to school together. We even went to college together, but I got kicked out with Rose when I formed a human welfare club," Dave explains, his words slurring together, "Don't tell him I told you this, but we even dated at one point. He didn't feel it, though, so we broke up." Here, Dave nudges you with his right elbow. It's little more than a light tap, though the booze-scented breath that ends up in your face as he pulls his upper body closer to you is more than enough to make up for it. (You're _not_ being paid enough for this.) "I'm still single, too, you alien cutie."

You, now thoroughly creeped out, nudge him away from you and back into a proper sitting position.

He continues speaking. "We pulled _so_ much shit together. Me and John. John and I. Fuck." A snort of laughter. "This one time, I climbed up onto the statue of the king at the center of our high school campus, and I shat on its head. Big fucking dump right on top of the king's head. Not like he uses his head for anything, right? And add in Sollux." Dave whistles. "That was some wild shit. Fucking shame the king had to publicly hang the guy."

(Now _that's_ something you didn't know. And it's definitely not going in the report, but you'll keep it in mind.)

"Damn. You're just so... Fucking... Nice. Karkat, bro..." There's a brief pause. Dave eyes you over and smirks. "You really _are_ pretty cute. Mm. I don't get those freaky troll quadrants, but I would be down to quadrant with you." A drunken belch. "John was right, man, I should totally go for it. We should, like, hang out some time. Just. Us. You and me. Chill out at Headquarters or some shit. We gotta _hang out_." He emphasizes the last two words by drawing out the vowels.

You, meanwhile, begin to formulate a way out of this situation. You might have instigated it, but you sure as hell won't be sticking around to see it through to its conclusion. Besides, as much as you'd (admittedly) be fine with taking him up on his offer, there's no way you're going to date your assassination target. That's just asking for all sorts of trouble. Moral, emotional, mental, legal trouble. Every fucking sort of trouble there is, that's what you'll be getting if you follow through. Nonetheless, you figure he's too damned smashed to remember any of this in the morning, so you laugh awkwardly and agree. "Sure. Whatever, Dave."

With a still-surprising amount of force, he slaps his left hand against your back. As you choke back a yelp, he offers another of his stupid smiles—the sort that makes your heart flutter and causes that weird, unwanted feeling in your stomach. "That's the spirit, my extraterrestrial bro. Go with the flow."

"Mhm." You fake a yawn. "Look, I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed, so... If you need me, call me."

From experience, you know the gesture he's shooting you is supposed to be done with both hands. You believe it's called something akin to "double pistols and a wink," but you're not sure about it. You're not going to stick around to find out, though.


	10. Intermission: Albinoni, Op 9

**From the journal of Dave Strider, The Nineteenth Day of Dark, 67 GR**

Note to self: Discipline the bodyguard for getting me fucking smashed yesterday.

I woke up with one hell of a hangover. The whole package. But, without John to help out, I still had to go through with my usual routine. Get out of bed, make sure there's no gross shit building up in my throat, and all that. Same as usual, but with a hangover.

Anyhow, it hit me that I never managed to reach John, so I decided to catch the next train to Coldridge, where John's Dad moved to after we decided to fly the coop and get the hell out of parental Dodge.

...Now that I think about it, we were pretty stupid to do that. I bet we'd be living the high life if we stayed in Coldridge. Living it up as standard-issue businessmen like everyone expected. I'd have a nice, cozy blue collar job with my own desk and my own holotop and a nice, reliable salary and a completed college education. Instead, we moved to Quasar's Wharf and went to college there. I got expelled, and it all snowballed into this massive clusterfuck.

To be real honest, I'm not even sure if I even meant for it to get this big. I ended up on the Skaian news, probably because nothing better was happening, and people started mailing me to pledge their allegiance to the cause It was weird as fuck, and I'm 100% certain some of those letters were people shitting around.

Back to the main point, though. I dragged Karkat onto the 10:00 train, and it sped us onward like a trusty steed. We got to Coldridge at noon, and I still remembered where John lived. Right down to the street number. 413 King's Court. Now, of course, I filled in Karkat. Poor dude. Putting up with all this nonsense. I'm not even sure where his application came from. The envelope was unmarked, but his resumé was solid as fuck, so I hired him. Anyhow, I told him all about John's Dad and what a cool guy he is. Sure, he's got a bad habit of making way too many cakes, but he's a nice guy and he probably wants to kick my ass for assimilating his son into a dangerous revolutionary movement.

Not that he showed that when he answered the door. Nah, he was all manners and hospitality, as fucking usual. He even helped Karkat lift my ass over the three steps leading to their front porch. The standard spiel, too. "How're you?" and "I've been thinking about you lately." All that lovely, flowery bull. It was a nice change from the usual "go get a job, you lazing sack of human filth" that I usually get, and it's not exactly my fault that I'm legally labelled as an unemployable. But, it had to end eventually.

I asked about John, and his Dad informed me that he hasn't seen the slippery shithole in a day or so.

Of course, that's not good. That's super not good. Awful, even.

Panic mode, except I don't really have a panic mode. Shout out to my shitty brother.

Now, John can take care of himself. He might be a giggly dork, but he can do real damage with a good, heavy bludgeoning weapon. Hammers are great. He could probably melee his way through an armored guard with a claw hammer. The real problem is that he's shit at realizing whether people are trying to kill him. Someone could be actively stabbing him, and I'm pretty sure he'd still be chatting them up like some acquaintance from school.

Anyhow, we got back onto the train and I called Rose.

"John's been abducted" is the basic gist of what I told her, and, in her usual Rose way, she reassured me that she knew a person who could help me. Apparently, her girlfriend, Kanaya, is an Alternian-born troll with a background in straight up murdering fuckers for cash. I'm saying that she's a former assassin, and she said she'd be happy to help. Queue the dramatic music as naked winged babies play harps in the clouds. We've got ourselves a saint.

We rode the overnight train to Rose's house. Kanaya was out when we arrived, and she'll be back around noon tomorrow. Until then, Rose has presented me with a better chair, citing the use of a different ride as a possible means of throwing off quick attempts at identification. It's one of the nicer ones, and it's got controls to tilt the chair to relieve pressure on my back and ass. It's also got straps, so that's an improvement. Rose has been breathing down my neck about posture, so that will help. I'm tempted to ask how she got it, but I honestly don't think I want to know.

Hopefully, Karkat will get along with her. I've heard that trolls can get super violent. Some sort of hierarchy based on blood, which sounds pretty damned kinky to me.

I think he will. He seems like a nice guy.

Really, I have to hand it to him. He's a bit of a nosy asshole, and he's loud, but he seems to have his heart in the right place. (I think trolls have hearts.) He's funny enough, and he's not afraid of verbally accosting me like everyone else, which is a plus. He even has moments where he's a pretty big sweetheart. Like, fuck, man. You can't go playing my emotions like a rad guitar. And he seems to be somewhat interested. He asks me about a lot of things, so I think he's trying to figure out how to help out and get involved. It's above and beyond. Pretty neat.

He reminds me of Sollux, except without a lisp and minus the whole "computer wizard" thing. He also doesn't raise bees, so there's that. But he's as involved and personable as Sollux, so he'll probably be earning a spot on the list of best bodyguards. And that's saying a lot, because I've managed to go through some. (They have this bad habit of either being thieves, assholes, or downright creeps.) I mean, sure, they're there to take a bullet for you, but I don't want some silent meat sack. I want to be able to hang out with my bodyguard and not feel awkward as hell, and Karkat succeeds in that respect.

I think I might have asked him out while I was drunk.

I'm not sure.

If not, I definitely should. He seems like a pretty chill guy. Well... Chill in a shouty and vaguely aggressive way.

Another note to self: Pistol low on ammo, need to get more. Big Bob's Bullet Bazaar is having a sale.

 **From the journal of Dave Strider, The Twentieth Day of Dark, 67 GR**

Kanaya and Karkat seem to know each other, and they definitely get along.

Rose said I'm stressed.

I hate to do it, but I have to agree.

The dark season is starting to get to me. It's a bad time for that.


	11. KV 620

**The Twenty-First Day of Dark: 3:00 PM: LOG 0023**

Rose's property is larger than Dave's, and she seems to be in a remote enough part of Skaia to have considerable free reign over it. She's landscaped some of it, and created a small island of flowering bushes and elegantly curving trees. Right now, it's covered in light grey artificial snow.

You've come here to be alone. To think about things.

For one thing, it seems to get harder to bring yourself to even think about killing Dave with every passing day. He's sung your praises to Rose, convinced her you're a trustworthy person, and admitted secrets (albeit while drunk) to you. He genuinely trusts you, and you have to admit that you can't just shrug that off. You can't help but recall what it felt like to be turned in by Eridan on your home planet, the act that made you flee. You'd helped the bastard, and he just submitted you to be culled.

Perhaps Kanaya was right. Maybe you were never cut out for this.

Still, you'll be paid handsomely. You'll be set for life. But, then again, what's the point of having so much wealth when you'll most certainly be banned from yet another planet? (If not legally, you'll _have_ to leave to avoid unofficial retaliation. There's no way you'll go unnoticed by other members of Dave's movement.

Besides, you like being around Dave. You feel oddly comfortable around someone who, in many odd ways, reminds you of yourself. He's an outcast on his planet, a bit of an oddball, and surprisingly dorky. (You say "surprisingly" because he looks like the biggest Human tool you could imagine.) He's nice, genuinely caring, and an all-around decent guy. It's definitely a break from the bastards you're used to killing, and it's not exactly a good break.

And, now, you're being dragged into the conspiracy. You've been enlisted to follow Dave on his quest to find John.

You could leave. Say nothing and flee into the safety of the massive expanse that is space. But, then, you'll be running from the king for the rest of your life. You'll also be running from guilt, probably, knowing your stupidly soft personality. Why couldn't you be more like the other trolls? Aggressive, tactful, and generally able to hold their own when faced with something like this.

You sigh. Reaching into your pocket, you withdraw a carton of cigarettes. They're a Human thing, but you've found them to be good for relieving stress. They also have no proven harmful effects on trolls. Then again, most trolls don't smoke. You light one, stick it into your mouth, and breathe in. You let it burn as you ruminate, and it eventually works itself down to a mere stub. The burning end is close to your lips, and you're forced to put it out by shoving it into the snow. You consider leaving it there, but ultimately decide against it. (Littering on someone else's property is a pretty shitty move, after all.)

"Rose said you'd be out here." The voice is softer and breathier than usual, but it's definitely Dave's.

When you turn, you find him bundled in a thick, hand-knit red sweater. Puffs of condensation rise from both his throat and his mouth, and you're torn as to whether the novelty of such a feat is disturbing or intriguing. Perhaps it's a bit of both. "What's up?" he mutters, having received no response to his first comment.

You shrug.

"Well, then, you won't mind me joining you, right?"

Again, you shrug.

He parks himself beside you. From the expression on his face—a wry, almost knowing cross between a smirk and a smile—you can picture him as some cocky bar frequenter. A man who says something, plasters a shitfaced grin onto his features, and knows he has you cornered. A man who laughs loud and without a care in the world as he pulls up a chair and straddles it like a haughty teenager.

Now that you think about it, you can see him as someone else. A younger person with radical thoughts but little incentive to act. A teenager with no sense of direction, no one to turn to, and the ever-looming danger of becoming irrelevant.

Wait. No. That was you. Not so long ago, that was you.

Still...

You clear your throat and focus your gaze on the tree directly in front of you. A Virgo snow weevil—an ugly, hairy thing with too many whiskers for its face and tiny, beady black eyes—pops briefly out of the ground before burrowing back into its subterranean home. "Were you always this way?"

"Hm?" Dave quirks his brow expressively.

"So... Interested in other people?" you clarify.

He offers a hoarse laugh. "Nah. I used to be a massive dick. Every tries-too-hard-to-be-cool stereotype in the book."

You nod. Now that he's said it, you can totally picture it. Maybe it's the shades, but he definitely has that sort of vibe to him. And, now, you're curious. "What? A big flirt with women hanging off each arm?"

"More like hyper-masculine douchebag," Dave says, shrugging. "It's a long, complicated story. I'd rather not explain it, but you'll probably find out about it over time. Enough about me, though. What emotional parasite's eating at you?"

"It's nothing," you lie. Then, after a moment of thought, you make an impulsive decision. Like every trapped asshole you've ever seen in a show or read about in a book, you spin a tale, "I just know this guy... Back on Alternia..." (You're really stretching it, but Dave will never know, right?) "He's got to do this thing, right? But the thing he has to do is real shitty—I won't bore you with the specifics. Alternia is a fucking mess. He doesn't know what to do and he asked me about it."

"I'm not a fucking shrink," Dave says, feigning offense. Nonetheless, he still gives his opinion. You have a feeling that he never really passes up an opportunity to tell someone what he thinks. "But I'd tell your friend to go with his gut. I do it all the time. It usually works out. Unless it's food. Too much food ends real badly. Trust me."

You nod slowly. If you were to follow Dave's advice, you'll be going against an entire planet's government. You'll likely end up on the shit list of many, many places, and you'll likely be banned from most reputable planets for the rest of your life. But, at the very least, you wouldn't have guilt burning a hole in you forever. Maybe Dave has a point... "Thanks."

"No problem." A lopsided smile. "Kanaya told me to tell you that she brought some Alternian slug shakes from a local street vendor. She claims they're really tasty, but I'm not about to take her up on her offer of tasting some. Not my thing, but I thought you'd be interested." With this, he passes you the Styrofoam cup from his cup holder.

You accept, take a sip, and proceed to eagerly down the entire thing before speaking again.

"Damn," you eventually exclaim, "That _was_ good."

"i'll go tell Kanaya you died barfing your alien intestines out all over the snow in Rose's backyard," Dave says dryly.

You roll your eyes. "I'll go tell Rose you died being strangled for being a fucking smartass,"

"Crude, but an acceptable response."

Despite your professional side telling you not to, you can't help but laugh.


	12. KV 617

**The Twenty-Second Day of Dark: 9:00 AM: LOG 0024**

You've heard of them before, but you've never been in one. The only operate on artificial ring planets, such as Skaia, and run on tracks cutting through the center of the open space of the ring. They're called CrossSpeeders, and they're supposed to be the absolute shit.

You have to say that you are _not_ disappointed.

The journey, even with the specially designed transport, takes a week. So, two- and four-berth cabins are provided. Each has a small kitchen and an encapsulated viewing area. Beyond the cabins, there are also shops and restaurants. Shows and entertainment are also offered, but those only come with the more expensive tickets. You're not complaining. This is much better than your usual traveling arrangements.

That's not the point, though. The point is that you're helping Dave plaster missing person posters on every available surface, where they join likely pointless announcements and lost pet notices from the past.

"So," you say, grabbing another paste-soaked page from Dave, "You think you know where John is, but you're still forcing me to get glue all over myself putting up these fucking posters?"

"Totally." Dave nods. "Spot on. I'm doing this to torture you, Karkat. Fucking suffer."

You roll your eyes. By now, you've managed to plow through a solid twenty posters. Where Dave got the money to produce these posters concerns you, but it's something you're not really _that_ concerned about. You are, however, concerned about the look in his eye. There's a suspicious spark. A lively glimmer. And you're sure as _fuck_ not ready to face what's behind it.

"I've been to Peakston. It's not really that interesting," you speak to distract Dave from whatever it is that he's thinking about.

For now, he's taking the bait. He offers you a slow nod before responding. "Yeah, right. It's probably a whole lot more interesting than the shit we were in." A breathy snicker. "That's what Kanaya says, too. They _did_ say that it'll be hard for us to get around, though. Well..." He clicks his tongue a few times before handing you another poster. "For me, anyhow. From what I've seen in historical photo databases, there used to be these really outrageous wheelchairs that could climb steps. They were pretty much personal tanks, and they looked rad as fuck. From what I've _heard_ , they're pretty common on other planets. Skaia doesn't really care about that sort of shit, though.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure that it's illegal to bring in that sort of stuff. Really, this planet _hates_ everything that's not your supposedly standard-issue able-bodied human male." Dave tips his shades up, revealing his eyes, and you watch as they roll dramatically. At this point, you've grown interested. You want to know more and, perhaps above all, you want to know how he knows all this. So, when he keeps talking, you can't help but listen. "It's kind of weird, y'know?" He picks at the fabric of his red sweater. "I _know_ that I could live a better life somewhere else, but there's no way for me to get there. And, if I'm going to be completely honest, I don't want to leave. I know people here. I know what it's like. I'm not rocketing off to another planet in the foreseeable future."

You nod. "Where'd you learn about all that?"

"I was born here, you fucking doofus," Dave snickers, "What else would I—?"

"No," you interject, "Where'd you learn about all that shit from the past?"

Dave frowns. He turns his head, something that seems (to you, at least) to be a means for him to avoid your gaze. With his shades, turning his had is definitely the most purposeful method of doing this. "It's a complicated thing..."

"Seems like a lot of your life is complicated," you mutter.

"Ha ha," he huffs. There's a few moments of silence. Then, after handing you the final poster, he speaks. "Fine. I'll cut it down to the basics. I was depressed after I got shot, spent a lot of time fucking around online, and found some stuff. That's it. There's nothing more to it."

Clearly, there's more to it, but you're not about to push him. "Fair enough."

"Did I ask you out?" Dave inquires.

Inwardly, you groan. Outwardly, you manage to maintain a modicum of agreeableness. "Yeah. But you were really fucking drunk."

"Well," Dave hums. He rubs the back of his right hand, wincing when the action causes the fingers to tremble. "I was thinking about it, and I was wondering if... Maybe... You... D'you maybe want to take me up on the offer? I've got some money from home, and I figured I might as well... Um... If you want to." A sheepish smile punctuates his inquiry.

And you, with his advice from earlier in mind, nod. Against your professional better judgement, you agree. "Sure. Why the fuck not?"

* * *

 **The Twenty-Second Day of Dark: 11:00 AM: LOG 0025**

The atmosphere of the on-board burger joint Dave brought you to is rowdy enough for you to speak with him openly. No one is paying attention to either of you, save for the occasional set of stares.

In a way, it's nice. You've never had the chance to sit down with someone and just chat to them. Sure, you've done it before, but it usually ended with you poisoning a drink or straight up shooting someone. The only deviation might be if you stabbed the bastard instead. So, getting some downtime to just get to know Dave is nice. And, if you're being completely honest with yourself, you're seriously considering dropping the job. You'll cite some outrageous but technically indisputable reason. Maybe your nonexistent alien father died.

For now, you're just enjoying the ride. You believe the Humans call this "going with the flow." It's something you've never done before, and you're honestly amazed you haven't. It's uncanny how fucking enjoyable it is.


	13. KV 31

**The Twenty-Seventh Day of Dark: 11:00 AM: LOG 0026**

Queenstown is as opulent and mind-bogglingly overdone as you'd expected it to be. The streets are paved in the finest artificial marble, and the roads are lined with walls of the finest imported trees and shrubbery. Everything is pristine, orderly, and perfect. It makes you want to shit on the ground just to piss someone off. Or, perhaps, you could chip off the tiniest edge of the natural wood road signs. King's Street. Aristocracy Avenue. Royalty Court. Everything is as pompously maintained as it is named. All the while, perfectly poised members of the highest upper class of the planet parade like the world's most outlandishly ugly peacocks, wearing the finest in cutting-edge fashion and adorned with sparkling jewels and precious metals.

Theoretically, it's a world you could be part of if you were to complete the hit, but you sure as hell aren't interested in this sort of fuckery. You have better things to do with your time than flaunt wealth and spend on frivolous, stupid things that won't matter once you're dead. If anything, you'd invest in changing Alternia and, perhaps, even altering the systems in place on this bullshit planet, too. Of course, you'd still spend on yourself, but that would be secondary to your goals.

Rose and Kanaya split from you and Dave the minute of arrival. Their goal is to scout out the city on foot and in a way leagues faster than you could ever go with Dave.

That means that you get the pleasure of watching Dave. You, a troll with no medical knowledge or training, now get to care for some bullheaded bastard you're technically supposed to be killing. And, beyond that, you're getting more and more pressure from the king to do so. And to do it fast.

It's not as if it's a hard task. It's freezing cold in a vast, winding city, and just leaving Dave alone for a day or so would likely be enough to kill him without any direct involvement. But, you're in too deep. You've gotten yourself into a massive, complex clusterfuck of emotion, and this isn't anything like what you've ever dealt with before. You've never actually gotten this close to a target and, now that you have, you're realizing that you picked what might just be the worst career path possible for you. You're no cold-blooded killer. You're as soft as your stupid brother, albeit (as you like to believe) much less annoying. You're an awful troll, and you're an even worse assassin.

Beyond that, you know where John is. You know that he's alive, being fed, and even being cared for in the royal prison. But you can't just say that. You'd sound suspicious as fuck, and everyone would know you were some sort of spy at that point. You'd be removed from the group you've come to view as your odd, surrogate Human family (plus one troll), and you're not exactly keen on that idea. Sure, the professional within you is in total agreement with the idea. Betray Dave's trust, kill him, and collect your reward. But, then again, the majority of you wants to stay within this cozy, awkward little family.

So, for now, you elect to keep your mouth shut. The king still has use for John, and you're confident the dork won't be in harm's way for quite a while. Until then, you're keeping your mouth shut and your dealt hand hidden from the other players. When it's time to show your cards—be it of your own volition or due to some sort of revelation—you will, but now isn't the time.

A sharp whistle draws you from your thoughts. As your mind crashes like a burning spaceship against the grounds of some foreign planet known as reality, it dawns upon you that Dave has been calling for your aid for the past few minutes. Only now do you recognize it. "Dude, I'm freezing my ass off. My jacket's in my bag. It'd be fucking wonderful if you could help me get it on."

You nod and step forward. After Dave has his left arm in, he pulls his upper body away from the backrest. You wrap the jacket around him, lift his right arm, and gently maneuver it into the sleeve.

A satisfied sigh escapes him as he leans back and readjusts his shades. "Jesus fucking Christ, dude, where'd your brain take off to?"

"Nowhere important," you shrug.

"I can tell," Dave grunts, zipping up the front of his jacket. "It's okay, though. Everyone has those days. Your heart says 'yes' and your brain says 'no, this is too much to deal with today' and it checks the fuck out, right?" As if to reinforce this, he offers you another of his surprisingly strong smacks on the back. "Don't sweat it."

"I'm not," you reply.

"Of course you're not." A shit-eating smirk. As he turns and moves forwards, you follow.

As you reach the edge of the shuttle platform, you're greeted by a stern-faced man in a standard-issue Royal Guard outfit. White gloves, khaki suit, and a brown stripe marked by two white stars on the mandarin collar. He eyes both you and Dave over before asking exactly what you expected him to. "Documentation," he demands.

"Huh?" Dave hums.

"Documentation," repeats the harried guard.

You, meanwhile, react how you've been trained to react. You reach into your pocket, pull out a bottle, and surreptitiously pour it onto your knit gloves. From your other pocket, you produce a blank card—the sort that identification documents are printed on across all Galactic Union planets—and step forward. As you present the card, you grab onto the guard's shoulder and pull him forward, into the wet glove. A few seconds later, the guard drops.

From here, two things happen.

One. You realize that there's no going back. You've irrevocably fucked yourself over, and any benefit you could have reaped from this job is gone. There's no taking back assaulting an official, and you're certain that your certificate of indemnity won't cover this.

Two. Having completely blanked—your mind blocking out most of the reality around you—you sprint.

* * *

 **The Twenty-Seventh of Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: LOG 0027**

In a cold, dark, and completely shitty alley, it dawns upon you that you're cornered. A gate blocks one exit, and an exasperated Dave Strider blocks the other.

"What the hell was that?" he asks, removing his shades. Now, even in the dimming light of the setting sun, you can see how confused he is. "I had fake papers, dude."

You shrug.

"That was some shady fucking shit." Dave folds his arm across his chest and quirks his brow. "I mean, even for a bodyguard, that was—"

"I'm not a bodyguard," you interject. "I…." You pause. Do you _really_ want to say this _now_? Certainly, there'll be another time to let this news drop. You can throw the grenade later, let it explode in your face, and escape at any time. Now, though? "I'm a criminal. I used to steal shit for a living," you lie.

Dave, to your relief and your disgust, takes the bait as if it's written in the stars. "That's cool," he shrugs. "I'm not judging. I'm a wanted activist, and I may or may not have hired people into hack into the monarchy's systems, so…. Doesn't matter to me."

"Great." You force a smile and nod. "I figured."

"Didn't know you could run that fast," he says, pulling a paper bag from a pocket on the side of his chair. "Anyhow, I got some food. Not much, but it's edible."

"I'm not hungry."

"Fair enough." From the bag, he pulls two sloppy, gross-looking salads. What you're hoping is chicken is spread out on top. "You mind if I eat yours?"

"Knock yourself out."


	14. KV 15

**The Twenty-Ninth Day of Dark: 8:00 AM: LOG 0028**

The place is quaint. A standard, central square bar with stools surrounding it. Small tables are scattered about the rest of the room, and stairs lead to a restaurant upstairs. From what you've seen, the place upstairs is a more formal affair than a standard-issue bar. Not that you care. With Dave, you're not going there, anyhow. With your wallet, you'd be kicked out even if you _did_ get up there. You never much enjoyed fancy food, anyhow. Too stuffy. Too cocky. Too little.

"Nothing?" Dave frowns and sips at his hot chocolate. After his last brush with alcohol, you've banned him from consuming it. Rose has also advised you to do as much, citing genetics. You're not entirely sure what that means, but it seems that he's got an addictive personality. That must mean something.

Rose, too, seems to avoid alcohol. However, she prefers coffee. "Nope," she says. "We've got nothing. Kanaya?"

Kanaya agrees. "Nothing."

You purse your lips. Nothing will come from you. _Nothing._

"Well, then, I'll just have to start looking." After downing a massive gulp of hot chocolate, Dave slams his cup onto the table. Not enough is left to produce a dramatic splash, but the dull clop it creates is effective. "I've heard rumors that the prison system here is fucked up. Lots of little groupings of cells all around the city instead of a massive prison."

Rose nods. "Yes. It seems to be an experimental setup. The theory is that separating prisoners dramatically reduces the risk of collective uprisings. From the history books, it seems that the system works."

* * *

 **The Twenty-Ninth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0029**

It's not exactly like you _like_ this job. You didn't sign up to squat in a cold alleyway, trying to use a dying cigarette lighter for warmth. Fuck blankets. Where the hell're you supposed to get those? Nowhere. Nowhere around here, anyhow. You can't afford them and no one would sell them to you. Your goddamned face is already on posters plastered all over town. "Wanted for assaulting a uniformed officer!" That's a fucking great way to end the biggest hit of your career.

You can't even smoke a nice cigarette. It's too damp, and Dave complains about the smoke.

"So... You sure made a splash here, right?" Dave mutters, snickering at his own joke.

"It's nice to see someone enjoying my fucking massive mistake," you huff, arms folded across your chest. "Here's an idea! Why don't we just not talk about it?"

In hindsight, you'd probably feel a whole lot better if you'd just told Dave the truth in the first place, but it's too late for that now. So, instead, you refuse to meet his gaze as you rub your hands together. "Fucking freezing out here."

"Never noticed," hums Dave.

"Don't be a smartass."

"I'll keep your advice in mind for later, pal."

"Whatever." You roll your eyes and fold your arms across your chest. "If we leave him alone long enough, won't John break out on his own?"

"John's not going to break out," Dave laughs. Apparently, your suggestion is the best joke of the night. You're almost honored to be the impetus for so much inexplicable joy. "No offense against John, but he's not the brightest LED in the box. He's creative, though. He's got that going for him."

"I guess that's something." You breathe a long, heavy sigh and kick at some of the snow on the ground. Beneath is solid ice. You're truly amazed that you haven't slipped and broken _something_ by now. Alternia is a warm planet; you don't take well to ice and snow. Sure, you _enjoy_ it, but you're not that graceful on it. "Well, he's probably fine for now."

"Oh, yeah. He's definitely fine _now_. The point is trying to get him before he's not fine, you deflated blimp."

"True." You nod. "So, what? I guess we start looking?"

"Mhm."


	15. KV 269b

**The Thirty-Third Day of Dark: 8:00 AM: LOG 00030**

How long have you been out here, wading through ice and snow? You're guessing it's only been a few days, but you're certain that it's more like hundreds of years. That's what it feels like. A century of wading around balls-deep (and trolls don't even really have balls to begin with) in a massive moral crisis. And the freezing cold doesn't help, nor does the fact that your current place of residence is an old mausoleum. Sure, you're happy to have something over your head for once, but you do _not_ appreciate having to sleep next to a coffin with some long-dead dude inside. It's not as if he can do anything to you; again, he's dead. But it's bothersome and off-putting. The rat skeletons piled in the northeastern corner don't really help, either.

Waking up to Dave dangling a rat skull above your head also isn't doing wonders for your currently sour disposition.

You swat the skull away with more force than needed, and its brittle structure cracks once it hits the stone wall. To this, Dave responds with a pout. "You probably just fucked up Great Great Great Great Great Grandrat's remains, dude." He tuts. "That's not cool."

"Neither is instigating me before I'm awake," you grumble, rubbing the back of your head as you sit up. If you've learned anything from this experience—which you have—one of the major things you'll know for the rest of your life is that stone floors are the fucking worst to sleep on. For each level of discomfort, the stone floor raises a masochistic bet of freezing cold.

Dave, of course, doesn't have to sleep on the ground. Rather, he tilts his chair back and lounges like a king. Not that you're complaining; the alternative is _you_ getting him onto the ground. Still, it gets your metaphorical hoofed bleatbeast (you believe it's called a "goat" in Human terms). From his current spot, Dave offers a flash of a smile. A sort of there-and-then-it's-not thing. "Rose and Kanaya said that they found some shit about John, though, so it looks like we'll be going back to the Tin Can soon."

"And you find nothing wrong with referring to your own house as a fucking article of commonplace garbage?" you mutter.

After a moment of faux thoughtfulness, Dave shrugs. "Not really." By now, the battery on his chair has long since died, though it seems that he instinctively tries the joystick. Sure, it's solar powered, but that only operates the tilting mechanism. Apparently, moving was low on the developer's list of priorities. "Mind pushing me outside?"

You stretch your leg out as far as it can go and nudge the chair with your toe. It's just enough of a push to get it up to the door.

But, obviously, not enough.

A loud groan escapes you as you stumble to your feet and wheel Dave forwards. Being that you still have to pee, you slam the door of the mausoleum shut behind him.

"That was fucking rude," he says this loud enough for you to hear it inside. His voice is thick with clearly artificial offence.

You, playing along with his odd game, roll your eyes. Deep down, you're amused, but your bladder is too full to truly appreciate that amusement. "Get over it, Strider."

"Theoretically, someone could jump me right here and I'd be defenseless."

Shit. The realization hits you and, after finishing your work, you open the door. "Whatever, jackhole. I'm so done with your bullshit at this point." You gold your arms across your chest and lean your back against the mausoleum's outer wall. "It's been days. I hope Rose and Kanaya have some good shit for us."

* * *

 **The Thirty-Third Day of Dark: 9:30 AM: LOG 0031**

"He's at the Southeastern Royal Prison," Rose announces her finding only after downing an entire large cup of coffee. Honestly, you're amazed Humans can tolerate the stuff. It causes digestive problems and headaches in trolls. Besides that, it tastes like you licked the ass of the nearest incontinent senior citizen. Nonetheless, you know that her words are false. At least, according to the last intelligence report from a week ago, its innacurate.

So, in the interest of speeding your return to the so-called Tin Can, you speak up. "I heard he was at the central prison," you suggest. Clearly, you can't just admit to having such inside knowledge without giving yourself away. Rather, you commend yourself for posing it in such an inauspicious way.

"He _was_ ," Kanaya interjects. She sounds confident of her statement, which brings up the question of where she got such intel, but that is ultimately beside the point. "He was recently moved to a lesser security prison."

Confirming her girlfriend's declaration, Rose nods. "They're thinking of releasing him soon."

"So we can go back to Dave's place!?" You ask the question on a whim, and you know it's whimsical as fuck. Still, you would happily submit your genetically screwed self to the High Alternian Council in exchange for somewhere to sleep that didn't include ancient Human remains.

"Not yet!" Rose says this cheerfully. And you would expect her to; she and Kanaya have some choice rooms at a local motel. Sure, they might have cockroaches, but they don't have motherfucking dead people next to them at night.

You, meanwhile, react with a loud groan.

In his usual brand of tactlessness, Dave pats you on the back. "There, there. I'm sure this will be done in less than a year."

You can't tell if he's serious. If he is, you just might end up killing the bastard.

Fuck morals. You are a pure and simple troll. All you want is a nice, warm place to lay your head and to not have to shit in the ice.


	16. KV 540

**The Thirty-Fourth Day of Dark: 11:00 AM: LOG 0032**

By now, you're fairly certain you've been kicked from the job. After all, your face is on wanted posters all over town. Not that's you're exactly torn up about being disqualified from the biggest payday of your life. Well, no. You are. But you're not as emotionally fucked as you thought you'd be. Sure, you're pissed that you've lost the biggest payday of your entire goddamned career, but you no longer have to contest with those odd feelings of guilt.

Still, you have to act as if you're taking the job seriously. Until you can get back to Dave's place and get your hands on your computer, you can't confirm anything indefinitely. And, until you _know_ your shot at a massive haul is gone forever, you're going to hold onto a glimmer of hope that the chance is still there. At the very least, if you're still on the job, slacking off isn't going to go over well if the king, in all his jackass power, has some surveillance trained on your ass.

Anywho, that's not really the point.

The point is that Dave has somehow gotten it into his head that a balls-to-the-wall, guns-blazing raid is the safest way to get John out of prison. Now, you've never been much of a tactician, but even a strategic blunderer such as yourself can figure out that this idea is akin to slathering a Human in the hottest hot sauce you can imagine. Hell, this idea might just be bad enough for you to elevate that hot sauce to straight up hypothetical lava.

Not that Dave is even listening. "It's a great idea," he insists, repeating something he's been saying for the past however-many hours.

"They will execute everyone the minute they get so much as a fucking whiff of the tiniest goddamned fart of suspicious activity, you twit." You reiterate your own point.

Dave scoffs. "Stealth is _so_ last millennia." He toys with his laser pistol. "Go big or go home."

"Whatever." He seems intelligent enough to realize how absolutely batshit his plan is, so you're baffled as hell as to why he's still insisting on it. Still, you decide to present your plan. "My idea was to take a uniform, sneak in, grab John, sneak out. Easy, quick, and painless."

To your amazement, Dave seems to consider the idea. He chews on his lip for a few moments and taps his fingers against the armrest of his chair. Then, after a few minutes, he nods. "Sounds reasonable. I'll let you do it, but you're not getting paid if you end up dead."

You pause.

You're not sure if he's telling a joke or informing you of some sudden change in your royally obtained contract as a bodyguard. Nonetheless, you feel obligated to inform him of his massive oversight. "I don't need to be paid if I'm FUCKING DEAD."

* * *

 **The Thirty-Fourth Day of Dark: 1:00 PM: LOG 0033**

Now this is more along the lines of what you've trained for. Knocking out a guard, stripping him down to his underwear, and donning his outfit. Sure, a close look will quickly reveal to the world that you're not supposed to be here, but the fact that you easily lured the now-unconscious guard with little more than a promise of free cigarettes tells you that there won't be much attentive scrutiny of your person.

Head down. Shoulders relaxed. Casual.

That's how you get through jobs like this. Never raise an objection to anything. If someone tells you to massage their disgusting Human feet, you fucking do it.

"Hey, bud," a voice beckons you. Turning reveals the source to be a large Argonian—a sort of odd reptilian race—glaring at you. In hindsight, the slight gurgling behind the voice should have tipped you off. "You got any gum?"

You shake your head. "Sorry. You know where I can find someone around here who knows where the fuck the prisoners are?" You eye the grimy map behind the lizard-person. "I need to speak to a bastard named John Egbert."

"I'm the goddamned warden, you fucking twit." The lizard spits up a slimy wad of something, and you're ready to knock her out if she asks you to so much as take a step in the general direction of the unidentified pile of shit. Fortunately for you (and for her) she doesn't. "He's upstairs. Second floor. Cell B6. Last one up there."

"Thanks," you nod and flee. The longer you stick around, the more likely it is that you'll have to clean up lizard phlegm.

Of course, you have to create an alibi. You drop by the cafeteria, taking advantage of the multiple posted reminders to feed prisoners lunch no later than 2:00 every day.

You're given a metal tray of some sort of strange slop. From what you can tell, it's mashed potatoes and puréed string beans.

With your alibi in hand, you proceed without incident up the stairs and down the short hall to cell B6.

There, you're greeted by what you can only call the most Egbert-esque greeting possible. Now, by that, you mean that it's tactless, loud, and jarring. "Karkat!"

"DAMMIT!" You set aside the tray, grab a slice of bread (the only edible solid you were given) and shove it into John's still-open mouth. "Are you trying to get us both killed?"

He snickers, chews the unceremoniously presented bread, and shrugs. After a few moments, he offers a simple answer, "I was excited to see you, dude. So, what? You're here to break me out?"

"Yeah, sure," you respond with a dramatic roll of your eyes. "Why don't we say it louder and let everyone know?" You kneel down, fish a lockpicking set from your pocket, and make short work of the admittedly cheap lock. You're genuinely amazed that they'd use a lock as shitty as the one you just broke. At the very least, you thought it'd be more than two minutes before you got in. Nonetheless, you're not here to nitpick security choices. You're here to get this clueless, raven-haired dork out of prison.

"That was fast." John seems to admire your handiwork.

You, having trained specifically to pick locks of almost every type, shrug off his compliment. "Put this in," you command, tossing him the uniform you looted from an unlocked supply room. "We're getting the fuck out of here."

"Amazing. You're my hero, Karkat Vantas," John hums, pulling on the plain grey jacket. (Unlike some other planets, Skaia doesn't go for gaudy when it comes to military uniforms. Some of the others use stupidly bright colors, like red and bright blue; the effect is almost comical, making officials look like some sort of strange, exotic featherbeast.) "Sorry for the whole 'getting arrested' deal, by the way. I've probably taken five years off Dave's life with stress."

 _And what about the years you've taken off my life?_ Resisting the urge to slam your face repeatedly into the concrete wall next to you, all you can settle for is a deep, hearty sigh. You force yourself to smile and, once John is dressed, hightail it the fuck out of the prison.

To your amazement, the whole thing goes over without a hitch. It's suspiciously easy, but, then again, the whole place was filled with underpaid and overworked prison guards who really just seemed interested in bumming cigarettes off one another. Considering how many times you were asked for one, you'd be amazed if a single guard even owned a pack of cigarettes at any given point in time. Maybe they just had a cycle of asking someone for a cigarette and being denied. Whatever the case was or is, it's one shoddy security system, and you've got a hunch that the place you smuggled yourself into wasn't anywhere near the highest security place.


	17. KV 73f

**The Thirty-Fifth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0034**

It's not as if you can just waltz back to the Tin Can the way you came. There's you, with your goddamned face on wanted posters everywhere, and John, the escaped convict. The entire planet is literally trying to find you, and that doesn't bode well for using massive public transport. Thus, it seems that you either have to whip up some masterful disguise, which would be difficult to do with Dave, _or_ you could take the extremely long and fucking annoying route back to Dave's place. Considering how hard it is to disguise a goddamned tank of a wheelchair, the unanimous decision is to go back the long way.

All of this is why you find yourself sitting in a cramped little manual-drive car. One shoulder bounces off of the door, and the other shoulder bounces off of Dave. The taxi driver, meanwhile, whistles blissfully as he speeds over every massive bump and considerable dip in the road.

"You two seem like respectable folk. Seems strange that you'd be coming from this side of town. The folk up here ain't all that kind," the driver takes a break from whistling to address you and Dave.

You, meanwhile, stifle a rising sense of guilt. Yeah. You, a killer-for-hire, a nice guy? In a million fucking years.

Dave, of course, have no such qualms about his morals. He offers an immediate answer and a smirk. "We're not locals. We're going back to the lower side of Skaia."

"Well, you all have a long way to go." The taxi driver sighs as the car slows to a stop. The door slides open, and you begin to undo the convoluted array of straps holding Dave's chair in place. "Hope you two have a nice, safe journey."

"We will," Dave hums. He makes a few attempts at helping you, but he's too high up to really get a hold on any of the straps.

Not that it matters. By now, you've managed to get him freed. You push Dave out of the car and onto the cracked country sidewalk. "Where the fuck are we?" you hiss into his ear.

He swats you aside. "I have a friend out here. She's going to pick us up here and we'll stay with her for a few days." He offers a wry smile as he folds his left arm across his chest. Perhaps unconsciously, his right arm falls across his lap. "I've told you about her. She taught me how to shoot. I'm sure you'll love her."

Meanwhile, John stumbles from his spot, having been jammed into the trunk of the car. Once he's out, the taxi driver waves. The vehicle departs.

John offers another of his stupid smiles. If you had to be honest, you'd say that those smiles are somewhat charming. "She's my cousin."

"I'm not sure how comfortable I am staying with a sharpshooter," you admit, rubbing the back of your neck. "I mean... I never liked guns and shit, but..."

"She's harmless as long as you're on her good side," Dave laughs. "I promise."

Soon after Dave's finished speaking, a tiny, lime green car comes rattling down the dirt road. The dust being kicked up behind is dispersed against the bottom of a hastily thrown-together wheelchair-sized trailer.

* * *

 **The Thirty-Fifth Day of Dark: 11:00 AM: LOG 0035**

"I don't appreciate being thrown in the back like a slab of fucking rotten beef," Dave's voice buzzes over a makeshift intercoms system.

From up front, Jade laughs. "Well, it's better than John's idea of making you drive all the way to my house."

"I can't. The battery's dead. You're all insensitive teabags." You can picture Dave's expression as he says this—lips turned downwards into a pout, brows furrowed. It's almost frightening that you know him well enough to do that. You've never known anyone that well until now. And, against all of your training, you like it. You like the feeling of familiarity, something you've never had before.

You love the friendly bickering. The sense of having a place where you belong. In fact, you believe there's a name for that. Humans have a name for this—family. You have a family now, and it's oddly nice to have one.

Maybe you will renounce your life of murder and wayward wandering. Just maybe...


	18. KV 417a

**The Thirty-Sixth Day of Dark: 9:00 AM: LOG 0036**

Despite the fact that your usual time for waking up is around 10:00, you found yourself unceremoniously roused earlier by the sounds of jovial conversation. Earlier, in the car, it had been cute. Charming, even. Now, though, it's a source of annoyance. How _dare_ they wake you up now, and after all you've put up with? The fucking nerve of some people.

Nonetheless, you feel vaguely obligated to follow the sounds. You wander down carefully hewn wooden stairs and into a room with walls literally covered by vines. Plants and wildlife are rare on many planets, especially colonies such as this, and it's a startling sight to see. Honestly, you've never seen so much indoor foliage, aside from specially designed buildings.

Clearly, this Jade character is quite the gardener.

In fact, you find her and the others gathered around some sort of odd, flowering plant. A tooth-studded head pops from the top of a thick vine, and the leaves are large and wide.

"It's from Earth, actually. It's called a Venus flytrap, and I got the seeds off of some kinda' shady guy at the market a few years back," Jade's voice is as chipper as ever. When she speaks, her eyes light up with enthusiasm. It shocks you that the planet's best marksman is such a carefree person, but you suppose you shouldn't judge people by their occupation. You, after all, are a pretty soft guy to be a killer-for-hire. "It's a pain in the butt to keep here, seeing as the planet doesn't have its native dietary needs. It eats insects, though, so that's pretty cool. They get stuck on the tongue and melt away."

"That's pretty fucking hardcore," Dave hums, nodding in some sort of strange approval. "Earth is weird as hell, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," John shrugs, running his fingers through his thick, wild, black hair, "I've never been there."

Dave snickers. "None of us have been there, you nerd. Fuck off, twit."

Despite your initial annoyance, you have to smile. An odd warmth stirs within you. It's not the same as the wild, burning, radiating feeling you get when you're around Dave. Instead, it's more pleasant. It's mild and comforting, not overpowering and passionate.

And, as this feeling rises within you, Dave's eye catches yours. He smiles. "Well, it looks like we woke the goddamned dead! Get in here, you lazy asshole. You missed breakfast, but I saved you a plate. It's in the kitchen."

"Yeah?" you scoff. "And where the hell is the kitchen?"

"It's through the archway. Pink Galaxy Moths all around it." Jade motions to it and, through dense leaves and interwoven vines, you can see crudely shaped metal supporting its form.

"Lovely," you say, your statement sincere. To offset this sincerity, you immediately add a jab at Dave, saying, "You think you can come decorate Dave's house? It's fucking ugly."

"I prefer the term 'fugly' to be used," Dave interjects.

Both John and Jade laugh.

John punches Jade on the shoulder, slipping his own comment in before she can begin hers. "I told you. Karkat's a cool guy."

She responds by shoving him aside, snickering as she does so. "You have a point, good sir, but it unfortunately cannot be done. I must maintain my lovely garden with the utmost care."

By now, you've entered the kitchen. Like the main living area, its walls are covered in lush greenery. The entire place inspires you, and reminds you why you took up this job in the first place. With the money you'd make from it, you'd have certainly been able to afford property on Earth. Of course, you're probably fired at this point, so there's no point in lusting after something you can't have. Instead, you continue to listen to the conversation as you eat a plate of odd, red, juicy plants.

Dave gags. "You sound like Rose. Quit it. I've already had enough of my dear cousin for a month."

"You're right. I'll cease and desist." Jade chuckles. It's a light sound, something like the tinkling of bells. "Hey, Davey, you said you asked the bodyguard out, right? How'd it go?"

When the reply comes, it's dripping with discomfort. You can see him in your mind, rubbing the back of his neck and turning his head away from the Jade. From experience, you're guessing the fingers of his right hand are starting to involuntarily twitch; it's an odd, unconscious indication of nerves. "It was only once, and it didn't go anywhere." He forces an unconvincing laugh. "I'm too busy with the whole rebellion deal to work it out, anyhow."

"You've got enough time to drop by here and dick around, though," Jade says. Her voice is confident—the sort of voice a person uses when they know they've got you cornered. "But, yeah, sure. All that blah-blah-blah shit about the rebellion is a nice cover story."

"Aw, Jade, don't tease him. Little Davey has a crush," John snickers.

Dave groans.

"We're just trying to help you," says Jade. "Besides, from what you've told me, he's got some neat tricks up his sleeves. And he seems interested in you, too."

You almost choke on one of the odd fruits you're eating. After some quiet sputtering, you regain enough composure to resume your eavesdropping.

"He's _so_ into you, Dave," Jade says, presumably having been asked for the reasoning behind her comment. "He does that dreamy-eyed stare whenever you're around, and he only seems to smile when you're around. I mean, I've only been around him some, but John's reports back me up."

"Ugh." Dave's sentiments echo your own, and you're on the fence about if you're relieved or frightened by this fact.

"Just ask him, dude." Here, Jade lowers her voice. You're guessing that she's trying to whisper, but, like you, she's awful at it. "I left you some flowers on your bed. They're super pretty, and you should _totally_ use them."

"Fine! Fine!" Dave huffs. "I'll think about it." There's a quiet whirring noise, and it dawns upon you that it's the sound Dave's chair makes when it moves. It also hits you that this sound is growing louder.

You hastily down the last few odd fruits before feigning interest in the prickly green thing on the windowsill.

And, just as your faux interest reaches its peak, Dave enters the kitchen. He begins rummaging through the fridge, an action he continues as he speaks to you. "They're good, huh? Another freaky Earth thing Jade picked up from her shady market buddy. She says they call them strawberries, and they taste fucking delicious, right?"

"Mhm," you hum. You nod. You know it probably looks fake as hell, but you're also certain that Dave isn't paying much attention.

"Anyhow," the fridge door slams shut and, when you turn, you find that Dave has emerged from its depths with a bottle of apple juice. After downing a few impressively large gulps, he continues, "We'll be leaving tomorrow. I love staying with Jade, but we've got to get back home. Lots of rebellion bullshit to sort out, y'know?"

"Mhm."

"Is that the only word you know today?" Dave laughs.

"Mhm." You're not trying to be funny. You're just unsure of how the fuck you're going to handle when and if he follows up on Jade and John's advice.

You guess you'll do what you're best at and go with your gut.


	19. KV 74c

**The Thirty-Seventh Day of Dark: 8:00 PM: LOG 0037**

A few hours ago, you bid a fond farewell to Jade. She was an exuberant, caring woman, but you're admittedly glad to be leaving. She was a bit too much for you to handle right now. Although, later, you'd definitely be up to meeting with her again.

For now, though, you've joined Dave and John on an odd thing that seems to be prominent only on these artificial ring colonies, such as Skaia. They're called overnight bed cruisers, and they're essentially double-decker busses with rooms. Each bus has five rooms—three up top, two on the bottom—and access to these rooms is granted via a narrow hallway running the length of the bus. You're in the second first-floor room, wherein there is one single bed and a double.

(Due to the narrow passage and the limited space in the room, Dave has volunteered to stay in bed unless there's something that necessitates him leaving it. You'd already had to carry him down the hallway, and the chair was grudgingly parked at the front, essentially forcing the driver to climb over it to get out.)

John immediately laid claim to the single bed. This means you get to share a bed with Dave.

Not that this is a problem... Or, at least, it _shouldn't_ be a problem.

Now that you want to go the fuck to sleep, though, it is.

"I... Um... Tell me that's not a bag of urine in the bed," you begin to address the various problems.

Dave, in return, shrugs. With the most infuriatingly sarcastic smirk possible, he responds, "It is not a bag of piss in the bed."

"But it is," you grumble.

John, unhelpfully, continues snoring. Clearly, he's a deep sleeper.

"It's a medical thing. I don't control my bladder, so this is a better option than piss all over the bed, right?" Dave hums, his smirk widening. "You know I'm right."

"Fine." You edge yourself onto the bed, going bit by bit. "I just... Humans are fucking weird. Recuperacoons are so much nicer, and they take up less space."

"From what I hear, those things are messy as fuck."

Shrugging off this insult to your natural sleeping arrangements, you inch even further, closing in on your spot on the bed. "You're not going to do anything creepy or stupid, right? Like cuddle me or something?"

"The only reasonable control I have over my body is from shoulders up, barring one arm. I'm not exactly going to smooth-snuggle you into some sort of weird relationship," he laughs, though it's obviously fake. The fingers of his right hand, which he's positioned on top of the covers, begin to twitch.

You keep your mouth shut about knowing that he's nervous. "Whatever."

"Yeah." Dave sighs. "Whatever."

"Good night."

 **The Thirty-Seventh Day of Dark: 11:00 PM: LOG 0038**

Usually, you wake up around now to use the bathroom. At this moment, however, you're woken by the lack of motion. Before, the gentle swaying and occasional bumping of the car's chassis had lulled you off to sleep. Now, it's completely stationary, and it seems you're not the only one concerned about this.

"We're not supposed to stop for another few hours," Dave mutters, the plastic piece at the base of his neck bobbing up and down a few times before he speaks again, "What the fuck is going on?" A grunt of discomfort punctuates this statement. "Help me sit up, dude. Please?" He tacks the final word on as an afterthought, though the situation lends itself to your quick forgiveness of his social oversight.

You push him up a bit and lean him against the metal wall of the chassis. Outside, you can see uniformed guards speaking to the driver. A flashlight beam hits you square in the face.

"That's not good," Dave mutters.

Now, John stirs. He sits up, rubs his eyes, and frowns. "We here already?"

You and Dave shush him simultaneously.

"We have reason to believe that two wanted rebel instigators are on this bus, and our orders are to take them into custody." The guard outside presents a badge, and the driver eagerly obliges. He even rushes inside and delivers Dave's chair to the waiting squadron of stern-faced officers. (So much for your bribe money.)

"Shit."

"Fuck."

"Damn."

At the very least, everyone is on the same page.

The bright white light of a flashlight casts a long anti-shadow on the floor of your room.

A loud bang, followed by the door sliding open.

From there, time seems to slow. The guard draws his gun and aims it at you. Another comes up behind him, and points a gun at Dave. Orders are shouted, but you're in too much shock to understand them. You raise your hands upwards, just in time to be shot in the shoulder.

You think you hear Dave tell John to run, but you're not sure. Regardless, John bolts; you're sure he wouldn't have without Dave's permission.

A bag is thrown over your head, a needle stabbed into your still-bleeding arm, and time...

Just...

Stops.


	20. Intermission: Vivaldi, RV 532

**From a report on Case R9064 by the Skaian Royal Court...**

Dave Strider, leader of the Prospitian rebellion movement, seems to be of little physical threat. A gun was found and confiscated upon arrival, as was the wheelchair he used. Galactic regulation requires us to provide a standard wheelchair, which we have done. His left arm has been disabled through surgical intervention. The surgery discovered a crude muscle stimulation implant. Despite being completely unnecessary to do so, he has been cuffed. All documentation on him from prior intelligence has been changed to match his current physical state.

Karkat Vantas, formerly hired by the King to assassinate the aforementioned Dave Strider, has been apprehended. He has been cuffed, gagged, and tied down. He is extremely dangerous, and should not be approached by any unarmed personnel. It seems that he has defected from his former noble duty.

Medical officials have determined that the level of care required by the pitiful excuse for a revolutionary leader is far beyond its worth, and, as such, no care shall be provided. No special accommodations shall be rewarded to prisoner Dave Strider.

Both prisoners are to be housed separately, though it would be psychologically detrimental to place them in adjacent cells. As such, each reside, respectively, in cells B1 and B2. Both cells are to be guarded at all daylight hours by the most experienced of prison personnel, and will be under video surveillance at nighttime.

Orders from the King have been passed unto us to ensure the least pleasurable conditions possible without killing either inmate.


	21. KV 593

**Fifty-Fifth Day of Dark: 5:00 PM: LOG 0039**

 **Your name is Rose Lalonde, and both your cousin and his bodyguard are missing. If the last entry on this drive is correct, it's been a solid week since they disappeared. You've found little to go off of, though this drive is obviously a useful tool, viable as a means of keeping track of what you and your girlfriend, Kanaya, have learned.**

You suppose you should enter some basic information onto the drive for the purpose of identification and comprehensive recordkeeping. Thus, you input the following to the drive's database as your first entry:

 **The following is to certify that the former owner and recordkeeper for this drive, Alternian native Karkat Vantas, has gone missing. Until his return, I, Rose Lalonde, will be maintaining records. Maintenance of such information will be further facilitated by my lovely girlfriend, Kanaya Maryam, whose experience as a former assassin and Alternian troll will be indispensable to the mission.**

 **This drive was found at approximately 4:30 PM today, the 55** **th** **Day of Dark in the year 66. Location noted to be on the side of an isolated stretch of Mass Transit Route 1. Other items, including wilted flowers and empty cartons of apple juice, were also found with this drive.**

 **Three spent laser pistol cartridges—determined by Kanaya to be for the StarLord 86 automatic model, commonly used by Skaian officials—were found on the road. One had been run over and crushed, but the other two were intact.**

 **Our initial plans were to travel separately, and Kanaya and I departed earlier than Dave. Dave, John, and Karkat were to maintain steady lines of communication, which was abruptly cut seven days ago, thus prompting our suspicion. We backtracked and discovered these items as well as an unaltered bloodstain on the pavement of the road. The amount of blood was inconsistent with a fatal wound.**

 **Aside from the contents of this drive, Jade informed us that she had provided flowers to Dave. Apparently, she's in the process of trying to hook him up with his bodyguard. The flowers described match the wilted bouquet.**

 **No other conclusive evidence or useful information has been discovered.**

* * *

 **The Fifty-Fifth Day of Dark: 7:00 PM: LOG 0040**

The usual nonsense station utilized by Dave as the means of broadcasting revolutionary messages has been dead for the past few hours. This is unsurprising, though, as its broadcast schedule is sporadic. Nonetheless, considering recent events, you've tuned the television in your motel room to the correct channel.

And, now, through the haze of static, a familiar voice emerges. "This is an emergency broadcast by the Heir of Breath. Repeat: This is an emergency broadcast by the Heir of Breath. The Knight of Time has been captured, and his identity is now known. As a witness, I can definitely say that this is _not_ good."

At the very least, this tells you that John made it back to Dave's place.

"My name is John Egbert, and I'm pretty desperate right now. If anyone is listening, please report to the Tin Can. I will be organizing search parties to try and find the Knight of Time. His name is Dave Strider, and he _should_ be accompanied by a troll named Karkat Vantas. Anyone with information should report to—" Here, the broadcast begins to fade. Buzzing static overpowers John's voice.

After a few seconds, there's a loud beep. Then, an unfamiliar voice begins to speak. "By direct order from the King, all of Skaia is now under absolute reign. Rejoice, citizens of Skaia, for we have cast away the shackles of the Galactic Regulatory Union, and their tyrannical laws are no longer our burden!"

There's a pause, as if the voice wants those listening to the broadcast to take in the meaning of the message. You, certainly, do. Rejecting the Galactic Regulatory Union is an action historically associated with an impending iron-fisted rule. Why wouldn't it be? The Regulatory Union exists only to enforce human rights laws and ordinances upon planets and artificial colonies.

"I, your beloved Derse King, would also like to announce that all of Skaia is now under the rule of my honorably royal military." Out of curiosity, you change the channel. The television screen remains a sea of dotted static. The next channel is the same. And the next. Clearly, something big is going on, and the continuation of the king's message only confirms your worst fears. "Effective immediately, all members of the Prospitian revolution are criminals. Your district Regent will reward the generous sum of one-hundred-thousand dollars _per revolutionary_ turned over to their care. Any contrary action will be met with extreme force, as Skaia is now entering a new and glorious period of prosperity."

As if nothing had happened, the usual programming returns—in the case of this channel, it seems to be some sort of advertisement for a zero-gravity safe pressure cooker.

Kanaya speaks before you have a chance. "Permission to bring my old assassin gear out of retirement, Captain Lalonde?" she says.

You respond with a firm nod. "Without question."

A gentle hand rests on your shoulder, and a soft, familiar voice whispers in your ear. "I'm sure everything is fine. Karkat was quite the fighter in training. He may be a bit of a softie, but he's got the potential to cause a lot of damage, should the need arise."

"I'm not worried," you respond honestly. "My primary concern now is the safety of our _great and honorable_ king." To emphasize your points, you roll your eyes.

Kanaya, however, would have understood the meaning without your addition. In fact, it seems she might already be aware of what you're about to say, as a wry smile now graces her features. "Any why would that be?"

"Because _no one_ messes with the Strider-Lalonde family and gets away with it."

"I don't doubt that for a second," Kanaya responds, knowingly. She pulls a concealed knife from her boot and hands it over to you, saying, "I believe you'll want this?"

"Definitely."


	22. KV 594 (v 2)

**The Fifty-Sixth Day of Dark: 7:00 AM: LOG 0041**

 **We have boarded a standard high-speed monorail, colloquially known as the Skaia Speed Transport System (SSTS), and have been seated in economy class. It seems as if the seating arrangements have been revamped since I last rode on one of these, as I have much more space than I remember having.**

 **Each seating arrangement consists of two chairs, each facing one another, with a small table in between. These pairs are set three abreast per row, with our columnar cabin consisting of seven groups.**

 **Aside from Kanaya and I, the train is empty, and I would expect it to be so. It is currently the Skaian Feast of the King's Benevolence, and the irony of such an event does not escape me. Currently, a majority of citizens are off of work. Our train is expected to arrive by the Fifty-Seventh day of dark, around midnight. Of course, the last time a train was on time was when the King was** _ **not**_ **a massively inflated ass, so the time is not set in stone.**

 **I shall provide further information when it is available.**

* * *

 **The Fifty-Sixth Day of Dark: 8:00 AM: LOG 0042**

"Presumably, the administration's withdrawal from the Union is also having an effect on prisoners," Kanaya thinks aloud as she scratches a long, jade-colored talon against the table between the seats. The wood sloughs off, leaving behind a shallow line. "I have yet to substantiate my theory, though, so it will remain a concept until proven to be true."

"It makes sense to me," you say, folding your arms across your chest. Idly, you tip your chair back on its rear legs. You stare at the dingy ceiling above you, and distract yourself from unpleasant thoughts by focusing on the gentle sway of the unsteady monorail. A crude but relatable statement has been graffitied onto the grimy surface: Fuck the King. "They wouldn't kill Dave, though. They'd use him for information."

"From what I know of your cousin, that will be an invariably arduous process." Kanaya hums. Her long fingers run through her thick, black hair, brushing it back into place. "He seems to me to be exceedingly stubborn."

You can't help but roll your eyes. "He is."

"Well, that's not exactly a _bad_ thing. He won't be exposing the secrets of the Prospitian movement any time soon. His determination is admirable."

"It can be." As much as your cousin annoys you, there's little doubt that you'd be devastated if he was killed. You believe that trolls call the sort of relationship you have with him blackrom, though it's not as intense. Both of you annoy each other, but will also help one another when the need arises. Aside from that, he's your cousin.

"I'm sure he's fine," Kanaya reassures.

You nod. "Like I said, he'll be safe for a while. The problem will be when they figure out that they're not getting any useful intelligence from him."

Kanaya, too, nods. She chews on her lip and joins you in staring at the ceiling. "I rather enjoy the graffiti."

"Same." You snicker.

A calm silence settles between you and your girlfriend. Times such as these aren't uncommon, and they're always enjoyable. This one, however, is underscored by an understandable sense of dread. While Kanaya isn't as fond of Dave as you are, she's aware of how much he means to you. Thus, she's invested in his safe return.

"This isn't working." A garbled voice buzzes from the drive inserted into one of the ports in your holotop. "There's no way a signal can be transmitted through a fucking flash drive, Dave."

You and Kanaya both freeze. Your gazes meet.

"Does this happen to be a two-way system of communication?" Your girlfriend is the first to speak. Her voice is as authoritative and distinguished as always, which provides you with a sense of comfort. "If it is," she says, having heard nothing in response to her commentary, "That would be exceedingly useful."

"Kanaya? What the fuck!?" The voice answers. Then, after a momentary silence, it continues. "No time to explain. Guards will be coming back soon. I have no fucking clue where we are. We could be in goddamned space, but I know we're at a maximum-security facility. Not that that's surprising. Dave and I are fine, but they're questioning the hell out of the blond douche."

You breathe a sigh of relief at the news. "Has Dave said anything to them?"

"I don't have time for that. The guards are back."

The soft static cuts out.

When you look up, you see Kanaya's knowing smirk. You mirror her expression; what reason would you have not to? "Well," she says, her voice tinted with a vague sense of confusion, "That was a development."

"A weird development, but I'm not about to complain." You shrug. "By the way, Jade says she'll be coming, too. Apparently, she's hired someone to look after her place for a while. Probably that Argonian down the street from her. She'll be there before we are, though. John's already there."

"I knew that John was there, Rose. He sent the broadcast." A small smile punctuates Kanaya's statement. "Where else would he be?"

"He could be on the satellite station, and he may have suddenly acquired the skills to hack the advanced security systems of the royal censor." As you usually do, you deliver your joke as if it's the truth.

Kanaya sees through this, and responds with a quiet laugh. It's a soft, breathy noise—more akin to a snicker—that's always made your heart flutter, as it is now. "I have a feeling this is the beginning of something beyond the scope of a singular rescue mission."

"Well, if we're breaking a revolutionary figurehead out of prison, we might as well go the whole way and overthrow the government, right?" you say this with a confident smirk.

Right now, the public is upset. You _know_ this. In the few crowds you've passed on your way to Dave's, you've heard it—the dissonance and disillusionment. A revolution is coming, and you're unsure of its specifics, but you're not about to try and quell it as you have before. No, you're going to egg it on as much as possible.

Kanaya seems aware of this, too. She's yet to say so in explicit terms, but you know her well enough to be certain that she knows.


	23. KV 612

**The Fifty-Ninth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0043**

 **Over the past few days, we've yet to receive any further contact from Karkat.**

 **The Tin Can, as Dave so affectionately calls it, has grown considerably in size. At least one hundred people have shown up to aid in the effort, and many are now camping throughout Beggar's Court. Of course, this has drawn a good deal of suspicion from local authorities. Some people have been arrested. One has been publicly killed as a so-called show of force.**

 **Jade has volunteered her herbology skills; using available materials, she has created many sleep darts. These plant-based darts can be fired from standard hunting rifles and contain a sort of toxin, which acts quickly and reliably.**

 **Technicians have traced the point of origin for the call to the drive.**

 **Acting upon this information, both Kanaya and I have departed for the provided coordinates. The location ended up being somewhere within the boundaries of Regalston, on the eastern edge of the upper-middle class section of the Skaian Ring. Our mission is small, being staffed only by us, but we are equipped with ample weaponry and medical supplies. On John's advice, we also have supplies for Dave's wellbeing.**

 **The entire planet has been strung up with large speakers, which are armored and often hung in the center of busy public spaces. They're typically black and red, though their appearance matters little. The primary function of such devices is to broadcast propaganda and messages from the king, who seems to be actively attempting to quell the rising tides of change.**

 **As is customary, more information will be entered later.**

* * *

 **The Fifty-Ninth Day of Dark: 1:00 PM: LOG 0044**

The Imperial Penitentiary, housed in Regalston, is the highest security prison on Skaia. It's also the largest, housing approximately one hundred prisoners. The may not seem like many, but the system of scattered, smaller prisons across Skaia makes such a trivial number important. By day, guards swarm the place; by night, sentries and turrets join a smaller guard force to maintain order.

From the window of the inn, in which you and Kanaya have started living, you can see the structure's façade. Imported Old Earth marble forms the base for the structure, while gold leaf accents the window trimmings. Oak wood—a luxury of the highest sort—is also imported from Old Earth, and its sculpted, curvilinear forms flow around the steel doors.

Looking up from her laminated copy of the inn's provided yearly publication of _A Traveler's Guide to Regalston_ , Kanaya provides you with even more information. Most of it is useless, but you're not about to turn down a chance to listen to your girlfriend's enchanting voice. "It says here that the visual style of the Imperial Penitentiary is drawn from an ancient and archaic Old Earth style known as Rococo. Despite the antiquated appearance, the inside of the prison is equipped with all the amenities of the era in which it was built, cited here to be the tenth century."

Licking one of her clawed fingers, Kanaya turns the page. Her golden-yellow eyes—with their catlike pupils—slide across the page. Then, she speaks. "The Imperial Penitentiary has been updated throughout the ages, with its most recent major renovation in 61 GR. This is known as the Derse Remodel, in honor of our Great and Honorable King. Over a period of five years, state-of-the-art sentry bots and turrets were added, as were glass-metal windows. These windows now provide tourists a safe way to observe some of the prison's most famous inmates." A hum of interest punctuates this statement.

You look up, meeting Kanaya's gaze in the process. "You have something to say?"

Nodding, Kanaya reads what you can only assume to be the next part of the excerpt. "Tours of the prison are offered for free. Daily tours run in one hour groupings, and occur between 11:00 AM and 6:00 PM, regardless of weather or season." She closes the book and returns it to the drawer in the bedside table. A pensive sigh escapes her as she flops against the fluffy pillows of the double bed. "It would make sense to me that Dave, at least, would be on display. Showing off the leader of a rebellion as a prisoner seem like a decent way to lower the morale of a burgeoning rebellion."

"Agreed. I propose we make a preliminary visit to the prison later tomorrow. For now, we should assess the situation." You fold your arms across your chest and stare upwards, towards a fly buzzing around a flickering overhead light. The flickering is timed, as the light is supposed to mimic the natural ambiance of a flame. It's a stupid gimmick, at least in your opinion. After a few minutes of this, you grow bored. You stand, wander over to the bed, and sit down beside Kanaya.

A yawn. Kanaya stretches her arms above her head and, in a smooth movement, tucks one of them behind you and around your shoulders.

Your immediate reaction is to withdraw. You don't have time for this, after all; you're trying to rescue your thick-skulled dimwit of a cousin. Then again, Kanaya's scent—a sort of floral aroma with no immediate and convenient description—lures you in, as it always does. You rest your head against her shoulder.

Your eyes slide closed.

Not long afterwards, you're asleep.

* * *

 **The Fifty-Ninth Day of Dark: 7:00 PM: LOG 0045**

The crackling of the propaganda loudspeaker just outside your inn room's window wakes both you and Kanaya. It's followed by a mid-range humming noise, indicative of it powering on. After a few seconds, the standard propaganda announcer's voice begins to drone forth.

"The king would like to extend his sincerest gratitude towards cooperative citizens. An invitation is being issued to all for the event of the season! Five dissidents, from the Prospitian movement, have been arrested. They will be publicly executed tomorrow, at noon, in the Regalston prison courtyard. The event will also be televised live, on channel 5, for all to see. Thank you."

This message loops thrice, as is standard, before the speaker powers down.

You and Kanaya exchange glances.

Suddenly, you're acutely aware of the distant sounds of gunfire. You hear a faraway explosion.

He might not know it yet, but your cousin has started a political revolution, and you're going to punch him in the goddamned face. This turmoil is only going to make getting him out of prison umpteen times harder.


	24. KV 385

**The Sixtieth Day of Dark: 2:00 PM: LOG 0046**

 **We've planned to visit the prison under the pretense of wanting a tour. I am uncertain of the logistics of this, and our safety isn't guaranteed; the violence has been escalating. The fighting is growing closer, and military occupation is growing dense.**

 **I have, however, confirmed that Dave is in the prison. Shortly after the live execution was finished showing around 12:30, another half-hour broadcast was shown. Dave was the primary focus of this broadcast, during which he pleaded for an end to the so-called insurrections. He was obviously coerced into such a speech, showing little emotion, and often looked at what I assume to be a cue card.**

 **It's apparent that he's not being treated properly, if at all. His breathing has worsened to the point that he's been placed on a ventilator, seemingly full-time. Due to this, I question the reason for the broadcast; his voice was barely audible. They did a poor job of covering his wounds, the most prominent of which was a gash just above his right eyebrow.**

 **Prolonged exposure to this sort of neglect will lead to certain death, which means that the priority of our mission is now to rescue Dave.**

 **Nonetheless, I can't say that I'm confident Karkat is faring any better. My best guess is that Dave appeared only to prevent them from causing harm to him.**

* * *

 **The Sixtieth Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: LOG 0047**

Getting into a tour group is easy enough. You show up at the prison, claim your names are Porrim and Roxy, and get paired with a heavyset man in his late sixties. He's sweaty, armed with a camera, and creepy in every possible sense. For the past twenty minutes, he's been taking photos of the most morbid museum exhibits—dioramas of jailcell murder scenes seem to be his thing.

So far, you've passed through the prison museum, which housed information about past inmates and the building's history, and several viewing rooms, which offer views of some of the most violent and infamous inmates. To you, it seems like a crude and strange way to spend a vacation, but you're not exactly here to judge.

You're here to find your cousin, which you have yet to do.

And, you're beginning to doubt that you will. Yet, as if that doubt powers some sort of luck-generating mechanism, you're offered a glimmer of hope.

It comes in the form of a not-so-distant bang. The floor shudders, the walls shake, and what you can only assume to be years of dust flutter from the rafters above you. A chorus of sirens and bells heralds the beginning of absolute chaos. Guards rush past, some trying and failing to get you and Kanaya to move with them. Prisoners scatter as chunks of ceiling begin to crumble and fall.

As groups move and disperse and flow like an agitated swarm of insects, Kanaya speaks up. "Karkat?" As the word escapes her, she begins to shove against the crowd.

You let her go. She can take care of herself. If her blade isn't enough, she'll just grab a gun from a guard. Not that she'd ever get to that point.

You move eastwards, against the flow, like Kanaya. You pass her.

The best way to find the cause of something is to trace your way backwards, against the grain. And, the further into the fray you go, the more chaotic it gets. Bloodied, battered corpses begin to line the corridors. Walls are collapsed, ceilings caved in, cells completely destroyed.

Without hesitation, you loot the corpse of a guard. His head seems to have been wiped out by a fallen slab of concrete. Not that you care. You're taking his flashlight and gun, regardless. You pocket both items before pushing onwards, using the light once you reach the point at which the electricity has ceased functioning.

Here, the walls are almost completely blown away. If you look up, you can see through the ceiling, up to the floors above. The walls of various cells are covered in blood, their occupants crushed or blown to bits.

"Leave the bastard!" An unfamiliar male voice grabs your attention. You flick off your flashlight and scramble for a hiding place, eventually settling on squatting behind a bloodied slab of ceiling. "Does it _look_ like this fucking freak could have done this?"

"Well..." Another voice stammers. "But we have orders to make sure this one stays alive."

"He's already half dead, you idiot. We've got to get out of here!" As if on cue, the end of this statement is punctuated by the rumbling thud of more of the building crumbling. Shortly thereafter, the soft plodding of a pair of retreating footsteps echoes up and down the wreckage of the corridor. You stumble back into the hallway, turn on the light, and work your way deeper into the fray.

A few feet in, you hear something. A mechanical sigh, followed by a few moments of silence, and a hoarse wheeze. It's a noise you're not accustomed to hearing, though you remember it from not-so-long-ago. Sweeping the beam of the flashlight back and forth, you begin to follow the noise.

Eventually, it falls upon a rusted wheelchair. In it is Dave, held in place by little more than rough, knotted rope. Blood colors his normally blond hair, and the disgustingly dirty tube sticking from the plastic port at the base of his throat connects to a ventilator mounted haphazardly to the back of his chair.

You have little time for shock, though, as your arrival is marked by another powerful shudder. You approach him and, as your hands touch the handles of the chair, the building sways. A loud crack comes from above you, and you have just enough time to realize that the remainders of the cell you're in are crumbling around you before—


	25. Intermission: Beethoven Op 43

**The Sixtieth Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: From the Biologue of Kanaya Maryam, Entry Number Unknown**

 **I am most certainly aware of the fact that biologues needn't any physical intervention in their coding to produce readable records of a certain designated period of time. However, in light of recent events, I have reviewed the data from this particular day. This journalistic entry is to verify that I, Kanaya Maryam, have tampered with the contents of this day's log, but the evidence within is still presentable.**

 **Notable changes include the removal of any excessive or unnecessary information, as well as the addition of biological scan data from Dave Strider. This is to certify the authenticity of the account recorded within this log entry.**

 **Playback should not be impacted by my tinkering.**

* * *

 **The Sixtieth Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: From the Biologue of Kanaya Maryam, Entry Number Unknown**

Despite being thinner than you recall, the troll before you is most definitely your friend, Karkat Vantas. He has the same furrowed brows and a familiar air of perpetual disdain. His eyes—the pupils rimmed with a thin line of red—meet yours, and he offers you a simple nod. Elbowing through the crowd, you rush forwards to meet him. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a hug, before quickly releasing.

"Where's Dave?" you ask, opting to skip the formalities of reacquainting yourself with him. You'll have time to do that later. Right now, you have to figure out where Dave is. Wherever he is, Rose, too, will be.

When he responds to your inquiry, however, your heart sinks. "He's in the back. I'm not sure how great of an idea it is to go rushing back into there, though, the whole place is blown to fucking shit. I'd—" He sputters into silence as you shove a knife into his hands.

Its blade is long and thin, perfect for stabbing, but not so great for blocking or cutting. You, too, have two of these. This third one, you had stowed in your boot. They're the standard issue sort of blade for assassins, and it's more discrete than your preferred weapon (a chainsaw). They lend themselves to the combat style of assassin training. Act without hesitation, kill without regrets, and keep your blade clean and free of notches.

"Rose is in the back," you explain, your voice low. "I'm going. You can follow, if you wish, but I'll be going with or without your additional support."

You needn't say this twice. Karkat, the blade in hand, follows.

Both of you shove your way through the crowd, and it eventually thins out.

By this point, the walls are beginning to show obvious structural damage. Huge sections are caved in, and the concrete floors are cracked. The surface is uneven.

"Both of you!" a voice calls from the darkness as you near what seems to be the flickering light of a growing fire. Outlined against the red-orange fog, you see a guard. His gun is raised.

Before he can react, Karkat sprints forward. One hand shoves the guard's pistol hand upwards, and the bullet fired from its barrel presumably buries itself in the concrete ceiling. With the other hand, Karkat spears the guard through the side. As the man drops, a bloodied Karkat steps aside.

You, rushing forward, gaze down at the fallen man. Upon closer inspection, you find that he, too, is a troll. His horns are both broken off, and the pupils of his eyes rimmed with a light purple. As you pry the gun from his hand, Karkat speaks up.

"That shouldn't have been enough to kill him. Someone will find him." He shrugs, grabs the gun's holster from the guard's belt, and attaches it to the belt loop of his prison jumpsuit. He uses this to hold his knife.

From your experience, you know that Karkat has never been big on killing. His motto is to kill only the essential people. Targets, and perhaps their guards. You, however, know that this is irrelevant, now. This troll knows both your and Karkat's face. After unzipping your jacket, you pull from the formerly hidden sheath your own blade. You swiftly slit the troll's throat, then shove the corpse aside. As you rise back to your feet, wiping the purple blood from your hands against your black skirt, you notice the look of horror on Karkat's face.

"You killed him," he sputters.

"I had to," you shrug, then move onwards. You grab Karkat by the wrist, and he follows. "Don't look back."

As he catches up to you, he nods. "You've always been able to do..." he searches for a word, only to come up with nothing. Eventually, he concludes, "That."

"If you're in my way, I'll warn you. If you're in my way when there's an emergency, you don't receive that courtesy. This was the latter," you say, wiping your blade against your skirt. While it doesn't bother you, keeping blood on your blade is against code. You don't really follow much of this anymore, but it's easier to use a sleek, untarnished blade than one caked with dried blood.

As if showing up purely to demonstrate this, another guard—this one an Argonian—stumbles from the wreckage of one of the cells. Upon seeing you, she drops the corpse she'd obviously been looting, and fumbles with her gun. Before the holster is even unlatched, your blade is through her stomach. A singular, powerful yank dislodges it. Again, you wipe away the blood.

There's a heavy thud behind you, as you've continued walking. "Keep walking, Karkat. You've forgotten your training."

"I was at the bottom of our class," he huffs. "Don't talk assfuckery about training, you goddamned valedictorian."

"How does one carry an injured ally from a dangerous space?" you demand, knowing from the increasingly ruined building around you that you might need to use these techniques.

Karkat, after a few moments, responds with a fair amount of hesitancy. "Preferably on a stretcher, because I'm not a goddamned cretin. But, we don't have one. I'd guess over the shoulder."

You nod.

After grabbing a slightly cracked but still operable flashlight from the corpse of a fallen inmate—something that rouses a look of disgust from your fellow troll and assassin—you continue searching.

Eventually, you approach an area that's little more than pile upon pile of rubble and dust. Looking up, there's a straight view upwards, to what you estimate to be the third floor of the building. From beneath one of the piles of concrete and cement debris, there comes the sound of sputtering hisses and groaning wheezes. When you shine your light on the pile, however, you see nothing more than an average pile of ruined building.

Karkat's reaction, however, says otherwise. He shoves past you, and immediately begins tossing aside the smaller bits of debris.

Nearby, there are two fallen guards. While Karkat is distracted, you remove their uniforms. After slipping into one, you save the other for Karkat. These will be useful when you escape. The chaos of this event is clear, and no one will pay any mind to two guards carrying out prisoners.

"Dave?" By the time you turn your attentions back to Karkat, he's begun calling through the cracks in the formerly solid shell of wreckage. Through these gaps, you can see that there's a dark space within. "You in there?"

Against all odds—and your expectations—Rose's voice speaks up. "I've dislodged a bit of rebar from my shoulder. I know Kanaya's out there, so I would like to humbly ask that you prepare some bandages. Again, I know you have these. Dave should be the priority."

"How fucking noble of you," Karkat huffs, struggling to dislodge a fairly small boulder.

Around now, it occurs to you that the thinness you observed earlier is likely due to him being underfed. You rush over, easily remove the slab of cracked concrete, and find yourself peering into what might be some sort of miracle. While a good amount of debris has surrounded the pair, the large chunks have been kept at bay by deformed rebar. Considering the visible remnants of the cell's construction, you can only assume that it's a maximum security one.

Rose, clutching a bloodied shoulder, gazes up at you, bruised and bloodied, but perfectly alive.

Your heart swells. Yet, it aches for your friend, whom you know to have since grown fond of his former target. (This fact is what has prompted you to act on his behalf, quietly pushing the pair together. You've done this to encourage Karkat to leave the assassins, as it's not the most viable lifestyle. Aside from that, you know it's not for him.)

Dave is in far worse shape than Rose. Aside from the fact that there's far more blood staining the shreds of his light grey jumpsuit, he reeks of literal shit. He remains slumped forward, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath.

Some more time—at least an hour—passes before you and Karkat finally clear enough of the wreckage away for Dave to be wheeled out. He's unresponsive.

Rose remains as controlled and calm as ever.

Karkat, meanwhile, seems to have turned to stone. He remains silent, his lips pressed together and refusing to move. His eyes are locked forwards.

"Some local Prospitian supporters have cleared a way through the subterranean transport system," you explain, parroting what Rose had debriefed you on this morning. "We'll exit through there."

Rose, still able to walk, nods.

You dress her wound, allowing for Karkat to rush forwards on his own. You're confident in his ability to find where he's going, and your concern, right now, is your girlfriend.


	26. KV 65a

**The Seventieth Day of Dark: 12:00 PM: LOG 0048**

 **A BRIEF ENTRY.**

 **JUST CONFIRMING THAT I'M FINALLY BACK IN CONTROL OF THIS THING, FUCKING HALLELUIAH. BIOLOGUES ARE PRETTY RAD, AND IT'S NICE TO HAVE IT BACK. I NEED TO GET MYSELF A STRONGER NECKLACE CHAIN TO HOLD THIS FUCKER ON. A SHARP TUG FROM A GUARD SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ENOUGH TO PULL IT OFF.**

* * *

 **The Seventieth Day of Dark: 12:00 PM: LOG 0049**

The place where you're staying is nothing short of the pipe fantasy of some cave-dwelling race of eyeless elves. The stone walls are lined with sconces, each powered and illuminated by a generator, whose fumes are redirected up and out of the space by a towering metal funnel, which presumably runs to aboveground. The furniture is sparse, and most of it is carved straight out of the stone.

You've seen photos of this in chapters on ancient Old Earth. Pre-technological people carved massive, awe-inspiring temples and dwellings out of pure stone, just like this. You're surprised to even be in a space like this.

But, the novelty and ingenuity of such a feat is dulled by the fact that you've completely wrecked any chances of getting your haul from the kill. You're a rebel, now, and there's not much you can do beyond rolling along with whatever happens. You've been publicly exiled from the order of assassins for which you worked, and any sign of you in assassin territory is grounds for immediate death.

Whereas Kanaya and Rose have tried to dissuade you from becoming an around-the-clock helped for Dave, you've taken it upon yourself to do so. Beyond the fact that you realize you're now inexorably linked to this fucker, you also feel a huge serving of fresh-from-the-oven guilt. If you hadn't shown up and wrecked everything, like the incompetent, bumbling bastard you are, none of this would have happened. If you hadn't been so greedy, you wouldn't have taken the job. To some extent, you're also mourning the loss of your former future. You could be living like a king, now, if you'd just offed Dave earlier. You could have the world at your fingertips, and be none the wiser for ignoring the plights of Skaia.

Now, though, you're caught in some sort of huge conspiracy. You're a wanted criminal, and an enemy of an entire shitty artificial planetary colony. (Or, as it stands now, absolute monarchy.)

And, you need to tell Dave.

At some point, you _know_ you have to tell him. But, you can't bring yourself to do it. Not now. Not any time soon.

"It's dinnertime, fuck-o," you announce as you step through the curtain separating Dave's room from everyone else's. "Rose fixed the most surprising goddamned thing _ever_. Want to take a shot at what it is?" As you say this, you set aside Dave's plate.

You, personally, have recovered nicely. You're nearly back to your usual self.

Dave, however, is still out of it. He's been in bed most of the past week, and the cave floor has ended up causing more problems than you'd imagine it would for his chair. You're starting to suspect that he's depressed, but he's been switching between states of outrageous lucidity and distant disconnect.

Today, judging by the spark in his eyes, is one of the better days.

You sit on the side of the bed, help him sit up, and prop him up with spare pillows. With the hissing machine—apparently known as a mechanical ventilator—plugged into the port at the base of his neck, he can speak only a few words every few seconds. His chest rises and falls at regular intervals. His hands shake often, like what you've seen in some older Humans. "Canned peas," he wheezes, brows furrowed.

"How'd you guess?" you ask, shoving a spoon into the bowl and sticking it into Dave's open maw. You recall how grubs are fed by their lusii.

He, in response to your commentary, offers a small smile. He promptly spits out his meal. "Ugh. There's really _nothing_ else?"

"Look, jackass, you're leading a movement comprised primarily of people on the lower end of the socioeconomic shit-train and people labeled as unemployable. What do you expect, a goddamned steak?" Your counter comes as you drop off of the bed and scour the floor for fallen peas, looking like the perfect image of a starving orphan, you're sure. Eventually, you return. You pull from your pocket a sealed packet of peanut butter crackers—something you'd been hiding for a special occasion, and reluctantly open them. "Fucking fine. Just... Don't tell anyone I have these."

"I can't," Dave's voice begins soft, barely audible above the hum of the machinery and the groaning of the overhead pipes (you can only assume someone is starting to take a shower). As he continues, the volume suddenly rises to a normal level. It fades again, then rises. It's another cycle, and all these patterns are starting to drive you up the wall. "Still too weak to yell. Or do anything, really."

A long, conflicted sigh escapes you as you shove one of the orange crackers into his open mouth. "This is fucking stupid," you mutter.

Dave frowns. He swallows, grimaces, and then looks towards you with expectant eyes. "What? Being trapped in an underground cave, or the fact that you've been hiding peanut butter crackers?"

"Nothing," you snap. You silence him by shoving another cracker into his mouth.

You note that he doesn't protest.

Meanwhile, you consider your options. You'll need to tell him eventually, and you're certain it will wreck him. On an emotional level, it'll be devastating. But, what you're concerned about is the trust. How the fuck are you supposed to earn back the trust of the only person you can feasibly work for at this point? "I was hired to kill you" isn't a fine admission to be making. In fact, you'd rank it just below having to tell a company that you've been embezzling 99% of all its profits since you were hired.

For now, you'll keep the secret to yourself.

"Want another?" you ask, dangling one of the crackers in his face. You make sure it's just out of his reach. If you're going to be doing this, you might as well have _some_ fun. "Hm?"

Dave, however, outsmarts you. He shifts his right arm slightly—barely enough to be considerable, yet just enough for the rest of his body to react. You know it's involuntary, but the fact that his left knee jerks, slamming into your ass like an unwelcome slap, is obviously planned. You release the cracker in shock, and watch as he catches it in his mouth, smirking. "Fuck you. That's not fair."

"Neither is smuggling in actually decent food," he responds. "I have a few tricks."

"I fucking noticed," you respond, promptly removing yourself from the bed. "That was fucking _rude_."

"So are you." He grins. He waggles his brows at you then, after a few weak coughs, he nods towards the entryway. "That's all I needed. Get your grey ass out of here. I want to take a nap."

"You've been napping all day," you retort.

He snickers. "You're not my mom. Fuck off."

Feigning offense, you turn on your heel.

* * *

 **The Seventieth Day of Dark: 2:00 PM: LOG 0050**

Jade has since joined the efforts, and she's also amongst the ranks of the twenty-odd people who share the underground living area with you. This also includes Rose, Kanaya, and John. The others, as far as you're concerned, are mostly faceless Prospitian supporters.

Except for Edgar, the eccentric artist. He's spent most of his time cobbling together decorative items from scrap metal, and you admire that he's taken to leaving inappropriately placed nude statuary everywhere. Your favorite is the most recent addition—a piece modelled after the ancient _David_ , complete with a penis made of an electric mixer's detachable whisk. "I call it The Grace of Man," he had informed you, before promptly skittering off to whatever strange corner of the cave he lives in.

Returning to Jade... Today, she seems perkier than usual.

And, of course, there's a reason.

"I've made this," she announces, showing you what seems to be a retainer.

You, naturally, are unimpressed. "What the fuck is that supposed to do?"

"It's a remote control," she says, looking vaguely upset that you didn't realize this initially. "I know it sounds _super_ gross, but it actually works with your tongue. I've had John working on Dave's chair, and we _think_ we might have invented something that will let him drive it."

"You _think?_ You didn't test this?" Here, you pause. "How do you know it won't just blow the whole fucking place to bits?"

"We don't!" Jade grins, "That's the fun part."

Before heading off to check on Dave, you mutter, "I'm surrounded by airheaded fuck-wits."

* * *

 **The Seventieth Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: LOG 0051**

It works.

Your mind is blown to shit and back, but the little retainer Jade hacked together _actually works_. You, of course, have a few questions. The primary one is how she got a mold of the inside of Dave's goddamned mouth, but you're not about to press this. For now, you're content with finally having slightly more free time, as you no longer have to be Dave's escort.

And, it seems that Dave is fond of this development, too.


	27. KV 385f

**The Ninetieth Day of Dark: 5:00 PM: LOG 0052**

Over time, the underground cave grows. Merchants, artisans, engineers, technicians. All sorts of people. As word of the continued survival of the Prospitian movement grows, so, too, does the size of the subterranean community. You'd once thought that having sixty rooms was excessive, but it's turned out that it's not enough!

New rooms are under construction, and there's a legitimate waiting list to live in the same space as Dave goddamned Strider.

Then again, you'd be the first to say that you're not quite sure why people do this. He's a normal person, aside from his health problems, he's the average human. You might even call him substandard. He's a bit dry when it comes to humor, and he's definitely not the sort of person that everyone can get along with.

Health-wise, Dave has remained fairly steady. He's neither improved, nor regressed. One problem is solved, another pops up. It's the most frustrating thing you've had to deal with, and it's not just because you _might_ like Dave.

No.

Fine.

You like Dave.

You'll fucking admit it. After nearly an entire season of living with him—a season, during which you were supposed to kill him—you have to admit that you've fallen for the bastard. Rose knows this. And, since you told her first, Kanaya also knows. And, now, you're faced with two conundrums. You _still_ haven't told him that you were initially hired to kill him. And, now, you have to figure out how the hell you're supposed to be romantic in a literal cave hell.

Everywhere you turn, there are people. Trolls. Carpacians. Argonians. Humans. Every species from the Galactic Alliance is in this cave, and they all seem to want nothing more than to meet Dave Strider.

And, to his credit, he's a gracious host. Even fourteen days ago, whilst battling (or, perhaps, a more apt description would be "beating the shit out of") a bout of some sort of strange human respiratory infection, he was more than happy to offer his time and advice. And, you have to admit that he's got linguistic skill. He knows how to say things, though, knowing him personally, he often uses this skill to say strange, incomprehensible bullshit.

As a whole, though, you're amazed. He might have appeared to be nothing more than a massive tool, but Dave Strider is smart. He has brains, and he's got skill. The fact that his face is damned nice to look at is only a bonus. The equivalent exchange-style takeaway is that he acts like a college frat boy most of the time. If he could stop being a foolhardy shithead for more than five minutes, he could have made it as a preacher or motivational speaker.

"Date me," you say aloud, pacing back and forth in your empty room. "No," you huff, addressing no one, except for yourself. "No. That's too straightforward."

You turn, set your hands on the stone surface of the carved-out vanity, and stare in the mirror mounted against the wall behind it. "Have you ever thought about us? Together?" For a few moments, this idea seems great. Then, you shake your head. "No! Fuck!" You're tempted to punch the mirror, but you know that will bring unwanted attention. (Living in a cave without doors _sucks ass_.) "Too vague."

Maybe you should go extreme? Just straight up kiss him. When you see him, just grab him by the shirt and pull him to you, and put your fucking clumsy-ass lips against his, which are so damned kissable that you _know_ they'll deliver the perfect result. This idea is, quite possibly, the worst one yet.

A loud, frustrated groan escapes you. "I just want to fucking date you, you fucking twit!" you exclaim, spinning around to face—as if summoned by Satan—a confused-looking Dave Strider. Trolls don't blush. You know this. You remind yourself of this constantly. However, the color of a troll's horns will subtly shift towards their blood color. This isn't something that most humans notice; then again, Dave Strider isn't the average human; you wouldn't be surprised if he picked up on that sort of thing.

"Really?" Dave smirks. He quirks his brow. Clicking his tongue twice locks his chair in place, preventing him from accidentally hurling himself at random objects or people. (This was a later development, born from Dave being too impatient to pronounce around the retainer.) "That's really nice to know, dude." Again, he clicks his tongue. He pulls up beside you and waggles his brows. Clearly, he's prepared to annoy the shit out of you today.

"I'm going to fucking dump you onto the goddamned ground," you grumble, staring at your feet. At the far edge of your peripheral vision, you can see Dave's bright red shoes, which rest on the metal footplates of his chair.

"There are a few flaws in that logic." Dave inches closer to you, and the footplates gently bump against your shins. "First of all, that would probably kill me if you weren't keen on helping me plug back into the thing that _literally breathes for me_ ," he says this in a way that's half joking and half matter-of-fact. "Second, you'd have a whole lot of angry people raring to kick your ass afterwards. So, while I acknowledge that it would probably feel awesome as hell, I don't recommend it."

"Fine," you admit, folding your arms defiantly across your chest. "You might have a point. So, what?"

"Nothing." He shrugs. "I'm just saying. Also, if you want to know, I'll date you."

"Really?" you respond, flabbergasted by this development. "You're shitting me."

"Nope." Dave smirks, winks, and bumps your shins again. "You want to start with a kiss?"

"That a little forward. You know. Just a tiny fucking bit," you huff. Nonetheless, out of curiosity, you comply.

Thus, you can conclude this experience with at least one life lesson.

Dave Strider gives the best kisses on the entire goddamned planet. The _absolute perfect_ kisses. It's unnatural how good he is at it, and you're almost certain it would take a decade to find someone to even rival him, much less beat him in that category.


End file.
